


Scars

by rev_eeriee



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe – Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe – Postgame, Desperate times call for desperate measures, Gen, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Physical Disability, Psychological Trauma, Self-Loathing, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, This is not a VR AU you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-06-26 20:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15670998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rev_eeriee/pseuds/rev_eeriee
Summary: Home is where the heart is, they said.Ouma didn’t really understand what that meant. Home, he supposed, was a place of safety, warmth and love. Home… was a place where one could be themselves, a place where lies—kind white lies and painfully black untruths—were simply unnecessary. Home was a place Ouma has never known, an alien concept, something he couldn’t quite understand. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized his detachment to the idea made a strange sort of sense.After all, if home was where the heart was, then the fact that his chest was devoid and empty must have been to blame.---AKA. Postgame AU. Ouma doesn’t like being in the dark.





	1. Retribution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Friedchicken96](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Friedchicken96/gifts).



> This is given to me as a request prompt by @friedchiken96 on tumblr and AO3! I'm really sorry it took so long, but I hope it was worth the wait! 
> 
> This is a two-shot by the way. This chapter would be Ouma's POV, and the next one would be Momota's. Momota's POV isn't finished yet, but since this is already waaaay too overdue, I decided to post this fic already. 
> 
> Special thanks to @Panta and one of my other friends who betaed this story!
> 
> Anyways, enjoy! :D

**** Home is where the heart is, they said.

Ouma didn’t really understand what that meant. Home, he supposed, was a place of safety, warmth and  _ love.  _ Home… was a place where one could be themselves, a place where lies—kind white lies and painfully black untruths—were simply unnecessary. Home was a place Ouma has never known, an alien concept, something he couldn’t quite understand. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized his detachment to the idea made a strange sort of sense.

After all, if home was where the heart was, then the fact that his chest was devoid and empty must have been to blame.

_ You’re alone, Ouma-kun. And you always will be. _

Alone.

Alone… alone, alone, alone—Ouma already knew that. He already  _ accepted  _ that. Ouma was the kind of person who was meant to be on his own, the kind of person who only knew how to hurt hurt  _ hurt,  _ a heartless piece of shit, a detestable cretin, a  _ murderer— _ he knew he didn’t really deserve to even exist anymore. He’d done so much _ —far too much— _ to even be considered remotely redeemable. He didn’t deserve to wake up to warm linen sheets and soft beeping heart monitors. He didn’t deserve the gentle throb of his injuries, the assurance that he was well and alive. He didn’t deserve to survive that killing game. Not him. Not like this.

He didn’t deserve to breathe.

(Iruma did.)

He didn’t deserve the warmth of Momota’s hand.

(Warm.  _ Hot _ . Like poison running through his veins. Like Gokuhara’s body set on fire—)

Ouma immediately pulled back. He could hear Momota groaning beside him, the weight of his head lifting from the bed. When he spoke, his voice was rough from sleep.

“Ouma?”

Ouma’s mouth felt dry. He swallowed hard, as he kept his eyes trained to the ceiling. Or to what  _ would have been  _ the ceiling, if he could still see.

Ouma stared at the darkness. The darkness stared back.

“This is  _ so _ wrong,” was the first thing he murmured after surviving the killing game.

“It worked,” Momota assured him, sounding incredibly relieved. “We’re both alive.”

_ I don’t want to be alive,  _ a part of Ouma whispered. It was incredibly silly, because back when he was under the hydraulic press hearing the sound of his death steadily approaching, all he could think of was that he didn’t want to  _ die _ . Everything was now catching up to him—the stress, the relief, the anxiety, the guilt—everything he had tried to suppress and numb out since he started playing the ringleader’s game. He didn’t want  _ any  _ of it, but it was coming. It was making his stomach churn, setting his senses alight, and he could feel lip tremble as he tried to keep himself together.

“Call the nurses?” Ouma tried. He could hear Momota shuffle beside him.

As soon as the astronaut left the room, Ouma pulled at his hair and  _ screamed _ .

* * *

Momota was the first one to notice that something was wrong.

It was ironic, really, the fact that the stupid astronaut was the first one who looked him in the eye and asked him if he was feeling alright, as if Ouma couldn’t tell that he was enduring a discomfort of his own. Ouma scoffed as he walked towards the trial grounds, ignoring the throbbing of his head, ignoring the stab of pain at the thought that he had to clean his head wound all on his own, that he had nobody who truly cared about him in his academy. That was alright, that was  _ exactly  _ what he wanted. But sometimes Ouma was just tired of being a masochist, the kind of idiot who cared for the welfare of people who couldn’t so much as help him stand up when they found them  _ bleeding _ on the cold wooden floor. Yep, that was a jab at Momota’s beloved sidekicks—and everyone else who saw him stumbling on the way to the Shrine of Judgement.

(Not that he’d let them help him anyway, but he would have appreciated it if they  _ tried _ —)

Ouma told himself he was allowed to be spiteful sometimes. Or most of the time, really. He was human too.

(But that was probably a lie.)

The third class trial was a nightmare. Not because Shinguuji was a deranged serial killer who thought he was doing his dead sister’s will (though that too played its own role to make Ouma feel  _ sick _ ), but because  _ god,  _ Ouma never thought those glaring lights and shifting colors could be  _ this  _ nauseating. Ouma was tempted to say ‘fuck it’ and just throw up all over his podium. He wanted it all to stop, he wanted  _ everything  _ to stop, and just give him a fucking break. When the trial finally finished, as soon as Ouma had said his piece about the dangers of keeping emotions inside and lying to oneself (ha! As if he himself doesn’t do that often already), he excused himself from the group, opting to find some solace in the silence of his room.

When he woke up the next morning, he stared at darkness, and the darkness stared back, before it flickered from existence and let the blurry light flood in his vision. Ouma winced.

_ Weird,  _ he remembered thinking.  _ Must have been a concussion thing. _

Several times he caught himself blinking his blurry vision out as he got ready for another day of lies and deception. Back then, he didn’t think much of it.

Back then, he didn’t think darkness would ever visit him again.

* * *

_ DICE doesn’t exist,  _ was the thought that Ouma used to keep himself sane in the killing game.

It was an assumption that was easy to latch onto, especially since he has never believed in the fishy technology of the flashback lights. The second trial told him all he needed, that the motive videos had similar properties, and he deemed his own organization nonexistent until further notice.

It felt like stripping himself of his identity.

Ouma Kokichi was who he was because DICE existed. And DICE existed because Ouma Kokichi was who he was. DICE was his life, his pride and joy, his  _ family,  _ his home—or at least the closest thing he had to one. Denying their existence was a mindset that helped him back in the killing game, but a small part of him has always believed, has always  _ hoped,  _ that somewhere out there, nine proud troublemakers truly did love and admire him.

It was a stupid thought. Ouma wished he realized it sooner, the absurdity in that idea, the idea that he was even remotely  _ loveable.  _ Maybe then the ripping off the band-aid wouldn’t hurt  _ so much. _

“Your history is an implanted memory. Everything you remember isn’t real, Ouma-kun.” That was the calloused, unbending truth, brought upon by a doctor who claimed to be part of the Team Danganronpa staff, the sympathy in his voice far too fake for Ouma to tolerate. The irritation at the thought that he couldn’t see his stupid face boiled underneath the surface, as Ouma considered this fact with cold calculation. He couldn’t remember anything about his  _ real  _ life. He couldn’t remember auditioning, couldn’t remember saying what they claimed he said on his audition tape. The doctor told him cheerfully that it was because their previous personalities have been overwritten  _ permanently,  _ and that one of the benefits of being a Danganronpa contestant was the chance to start again as an entirely different,  _ talented  _ person.

Ouma absentmindedly thought that if his past self agreed to be in a killing game  _ just  _ to end up as the pathetic husk of a person he was now, then that guy was probably a complete fucking idiot. If he ever met his previous self, he was going to throw him off a cliff.

Not that Ouma wasn’t tempted to do  _ just that  _ to his present self, but that was a thought he’d rather not entertain.

“Where are the others?” he found himself asking. There was a brief pause.

“The others?”

“Momota-chan,” Ouma started, “Saihara-chan, Yumeno-chan, Kiibo and the others… what happened to them?”

“Ah, K1-B0 was deactivated shortly after the game. Danganronpa isn’t likely to have another season anyways, so it would have no use.” There it was: bitterness and poorly-hidden contempt. Ouma was the reason why Danganronpa was dead. The thought that his life was in the hands of a doctor who clearly hated him was disconcerting, as was the way he referred to Kiibo as an ‘it’. “Everyone else, including our precious Shirogane-san, is recuperating in their own ways. That being said, once you recover your physical injuries, you should be all-ready to start psychological therapy—”

Ouma lifted his hand to touch his head, feeling for the still scabbed wound he knew would be there. When he spoke, he realized his voice was eerily blank. “What about my head?”

Confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“Did you check my head?” Ouma asked, a bit annoyed. “I fell in the floorboards on one of Shinguuji’s death traps.”

“Oh, you mean that…” there was the sound of pencil scratching paper. Maybe he was taking notes on his clipboard? “Well, as it doesn’t seem to have some lasting effects on you, I don’t think it would be a matter of concern—”

Ouma let out a breath of disbelief as he closed his eyes. “Are you fucking kidding me, he whispered.

“Excuse me?”

Ouma opened his eyes and tried to look in the direction of the doctor’s voice. All throughout the conversation he had been staring at the ceiling, or in the  _ direction  _ of the ceiling, and he wondered if all this time the doctor thought he was simply being rude. Not that he could blame him in hindsight; Ouma had never been known for his good manners.

“Doctor,” he started slowly, as if speaking to a child. “I’m  _ blind. _ ”

If he tried hard enough, Ouma could imagine the look on his face. The state of shock, the widening of his eyes, the panic in his expression. When the doctor spoke again, he wasn’t talking to Ouma anymore.

“Nurse? We need to schedule a CT scan, quickly.” There was a flurry of movement, and Ouma closed his eyes, resigning himself to the movements as he was ushered to sit, hearing the click of something in front of him, presumably a flashlight, and the voice of the doctor mumbling under his breath. “This could be a problem…”

“Aww, you do care,” Ouma kidded, voice sickly sweet. The doctor didn’t grace him with a reply.

Later he would find out, through the hushed whispers of his nurses, that the panic was not because of some deep concern for the well-being of his patients, but because of the fact that the lawyers and media was already grilling Team Danganronpa for Momota’s “situation” (the whole shebang about implanting an illness on him, maybe?), and getting another contestant permanently blind as a direct result of their planned out ‘three-deaths-in-a-row’ gag was going to put them in even deeper shit.

_ Yay. _

* * *

Darkness visited a second time after Momota punched him in the face hard enough to feel the force rattle his skull. It wasn’t a fleeting moment, like the first one, but an  _ entire  _ five minutes. Five minutes of Ouma trying to blink back the blackness that threatened to swallow his vision, five minutes of him trying to tell people apart through the blurred moving colors. For a long time, he stood there, motionless, as people fretted over their memories from the flashback light. For a long time, he stood there, anxiety rippling in his gut, unease creeping up his spine, as he waited, waited, and  _ waited  _ for his vision to recover.

Eventually, it did. And Ouma couldn’t help but be utterly _ relieved…  _ and incredibly terrified. At that point he realized the darkness would probably visit again. And next time, it would not be a stretch to believe it could stay for good.

How long did he have until the darkness swallowed him completely?

_ Fuck you and your floorboards, Shinguuji-chan. _ He cursed inside his head.  _ Fuck you and your fists, Momota-chan. _

That night, Ouma walked his way through the entire Ultimate Academy with his eyes closed, because fuck if he would let himself be useless in this killing game. Fuck if he would let a mere mishap, a mere  _ disability  _ fuck up his chances of ending this nightmare. He was Ouma Kokichi, and nothing could stop him. He was Ouma Kokichi, and this world would belong to  _ him. _

He wouldn’t let  _ anything  _ get in his way. Not his physical condition, not his emotional state… not his friends or enemies and traitors and murderers. Certainly  _ not _ Iruma, either. Iruma, who was going to kill him if he didn’t stop her. Iruma, who was a valuable ally, as far as their flimsy partnership went on. Iruma, who was, in some ways, a  _ friend  _ to him—

Iruma, who he knew would betray him.

_ Ko-kichi.  _ Small luck. Even his name was mocking him.

He didn’t get any sleep that night. He walked on and on and on as far as his legs could take him, memorizing the layout of the school by heart. And as soon as he arrived back at his dorm, he stared at the ceiling and laid there awake, silently worried that if he closed his eyes, then the darkness would trap him forever.

Maybe he deserved it. He was planning a murder after all. He was seeking to save his own skin. He was going to betray DICE. He was going to betray  _ everything  _ he lived for,  _ everything  _ he believed in.

_ DICE doesn’t exist,  _ was the thought that Ouma used to keep himself sane in the killing game.

It was his justification to do something he knew he’d  _ never  _ forgive himself for.

* * *

“What are you doing here?” Ouma asked _,_ more tired than annoyed.

There was a small choked noise right in front of him. A few tentative footsteps. The sound of the chair on his bedside creaking, and then a familiar voice. “How did you know it was me?”

Ouma frowned. He didn’t want to admit it, but from the days they spent together in the hangar Ouma had gotten used to the sound of Momota’s movements. His tread was quite particular, small  _ thud-thud-thud _ from the weight of his unrestrained footsteps—he was simply the kind of guy who walked as if he owned the world. He almost always walked with brimming confidence, even at the moments where he was hesitant, a fact that led Ouma to believe that his very confidence itself was a sham, a mask set in place to project himself as a beacon of reliability.

Ouma didn’t say that, though. Instead, he quipped, “I can smell your idiocy from a mile away.”

“Hey! That’s uncalled for,” Momota said defensively. But even then his voice lacked gusto, uncharacteristically half-hearted for someone like him. Ouma could practically feel him hesitate before he asked, “So… how do you feel?”

“Peachy,” Ouma easily replied with his usual lilted tone. “My arms hurt like hell, I can’t move much because apparently that poison did me some nerve damage, but other than that? Just  _ peachy. _ This is nothing, Momota-chan! I get near death experiences as a Supreme Leader almost every day!”

“Stop lying,” Momota scolded softly. “Those memories are fake. None of that is… real.”

Ouma shrugged, keeping up his cheerful façade. “I guess so! Geez, doesn’t it suck, Momota-chan? To get out of the killing game only to realize that in the real world your whole life basically doesn’t _exist?”_ This was something he thought of often, as much as he didn’t want to admit. “Imagine if Tojou-chan got out only to realize she wasn’t _actually_ the prime minister of Japan, or if Shinguuji-chan got out to find out his sister didn’t actually exist, or if Gonta survived to find out that everything wasn’t destroyed, and he _killed everyone for nothing!”_ The last part sounded a little too emotional for Ouma’s tastes. _Oops. Back up, back up._ He let out an innocent smile. “Isn’t that just _awful?”_

Momota replied with silence. Ouma wished he could see what his expression looked like. There was another creak from his chair, which must have been caused by him shifting uncomfortably, before he replied in a manner unbecoming of him—changing the subject. “Your vision…”

Ouma stilled. Momota was the only one who knew. It may or may not be because he was the only one who saw Ouma’s breakdown in the hangar, when the darkness came and trapped him for good. It was he who Ouma clung to in that short vulnerable moment where he confessed that he didn’t like the dark—a fear that he didn’t dwell in often, but the thought of being in its embrace for the rest of his short miserable life was no less terrifying.

It was Momota who comforted him. Momota who told him everything would be alright. At that moment, it was almost soothing, now he simply found it disgusting. Ouma was  _ so  _ pathetic that he’d take any semblance of care and concern from anyone—even if it was a guy who he knew had a hero complex bigger than the sun. A guy who didn’t really care, just felt  _ obliged  _ to care, because it’s what would feed his ever-hungry ego.

Ouma hated Momota Kaito.

“Yes? What about it?” Ouma asked as he fluttered his eyelashes in a way that he knew looked obnoxious and patronizing.

It had the intended effect. He could hear Momota scowl. “Stop that shit, you’re not cute.”

“Oh, I am  _ plenty  _ cute, Momo-chan!”

“Shut up,” Momota snapped, before his tone became uncertain again. “Are… your eyes going to be okay? Can you still recover your sight?”

“Hmm~ I don’t know! They haven’t given me my results yet,” Ouma replied honestly. “How about you, Momo-chan?”

“Huh, me?” Momota sounded confused. “I can move fine. I mean—” he abruptly stopped. There was a rustle of clothing, before he continued. “I mean, I w-wasn’t the one who was poisoned.”

Something about Momota’s voice when he said that… there was a certain strangeness. A  _ vulnerability.  _ Ouma frowned. “I wasn’t talking about the poison. I was talking about your weird space virus.” he clarified. “Are you dying soon?”

“Oh,  _ that _ .” The chair creaked again. Momota sighed. “Doctors said I’d be fine. The virus they gave me is a strain under their control or something. They got medicines and procedures to get rid of it and all.”

“Isn’t that lovely,” Ouma said sarcastically. “The more I think about it, the more I realize they were  _ really  _ unfair with you, Momo-chan. Giving you an illness in the middle of the killing game? It’s like they didn’t really want you to win at all!”

Momota fell silent for a moment. “I apparently… didn’t mind when I auditioned. Because I was planning to kill everyone and win as soon as possible anyway.” A pause. “I watched my audition tape.”

“I didn’t watch mine.” Ouma deadpanned. “I don’t need to hear from a guy who signed up to die.”

“We were… pretty fucked up, weren’t we?”

“We still are.”

Silence. What would Momota be doing right now? Was he clenching his fists in frustration? Gritting his teeth in defiance? Surely Ouma’s statement couldn’t have rung well with him, with how obsessed he was with being a  _ hero.  _ But to his surprise, Momota just… sighed.

“We were all just trying to be the best versions of ourselves we could be,” he mumbled.

_ I gave up trying a long time ago,  _ Ouma didn’t say.

“Anyway!” Momota said with an upbeat tone that Ouma recognized. A forced enthusiasm. He must be pressing his fists together now. “I didn’t come here to mope! I asked the nurse if I can take you out to the gardens, and they said yes! So I’m taking you there. The place is beautiful, I tell you.”

Ouma frowned. “Are you mocking me?”

Momota scoffed. “You can’t see it, so what? You can feel the leaves, smell the flowers, taste the sun…” Ouma put out his tongue with an exaggerated  _ blegh,  _ but Momota was already standing up and wheeling something in… perhaps a wheelchair? “Come on, you can’t stay cooped up here forever!”

“Momo-chan, I can’t exactly move.” Ouma reminded him. “Stop being a dumbass and just fuck off— _ whoa!  _ What the hell?!” He was suddenly weightless, as Momota’s right arm awkwardly grabbed him by the waist, lifting him up with effort. Ouma instinctively clutched at Momota’s shirt so he wouldn’t fall. He started pounding at his chest. “Let me go!”

Momota let out an amused chuckle. The sound reverberated from his chest and onto Ouma’s pounding fist. “God, you call that hitting? You’re a weak ass shit.”

Ouma huffed in distaste as he was lowered into—yep, that’s a wheelchair, alright. He pouted angrily as he crossed his arms in front of his chest, now trapped in a wheeled monstrosity that Momota controlled. He let out a sigh, resigned to his fate.

“Come on, don’t make that face,” Momota said. “It’ll be fun.”

“If you wanted to do  _ fun,  _ then maybe you should’ve gone to your sidekicks instead, Luminary of the Stars-chan.” Momota suddenly fell silent. Ouma blinked in surprise at the reaction. He was unconscious through most of the trial, so he didn’t really have much of an idea how it turned out. “Momota-chan…?”

“I…” he could faintly hear the rubber from the right grip of the wheelchair squeak a little. Momota must have been squeezing it hard. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Ouma cocked an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I… realized that I probably didn’t know them as well as I thought.”

Ouma bit his lip as Momota started wheeling him to the hallway. For a long while they were silent, until finally Ouma replied.

“Silly Momota-chan,” he muttered ruefully. “You only realize that now?”

* * *

Ouma Kokichi logged in the virtual world at exactly 11:04 PM.

Being in his avatar, in a strange way, was almost refreshing. No headaches, no sudden blurry eyesight or dark spots dancing in his eyes—for once he felt… kinda good. The virtual world was pretty neat with the way it was programmed. Too bad it was going to be used for murder.

By the time this farce was over, Iruma or Ouma—one of them… one of them would be dead. For good. The thought sent a chill down Ouma’s spine. This was it. This was where he lays his morals to die. This was where he betrays DICE. This was where he commits his sins.

Luring Gokuhara away from the group was easy. Showing him the secret of the outside world was easy. Taking advantage of his despair and giving him the idea to mercy kill the rest of the group was  _ easy _ .

Watching Iruma die in front of him was  _ not. _

To this day it still haunted his nightmares. The look on her face. A cutesy pink avatar flailing as her head turned blue, thrashing against the toilet paper at her neck, until finally she became still… motionless. The only reason why he was able to watch at all (and not collapse into a broken mess on the ground) was because they were both avatars. Computer programs. Seeing her die in avatar form probably made it  _ bearable.  _ Or maybe it was just because his avatar didn’t have the ability to throw up at all.

It was so easy to end a life. Ouma didn’t think it would be  _ that  _ easy.

Gokuhara apologized to Iruma’s motionless avatar even as he slid her with the lattice down the roof. Ouma felt numb.

Ouma Kokichi logged out of the virtual world at exactly 7:00 AM. But what came out of that world wasn’t Ouma Kokichi at all.

It was a monster.

* * *

“You say the game is broken, I don’t think so! The rules clearly stated that if the class voted wrong, you all get executed! And you all voted wrong! Punishment time!”

“Bullshit! There wasn’t even a fucking body! You’re a cheater, Monokuma. You don’t follow your own rules! This game is rigged. So let us out already! Showtime’s over!”

“Upupupu… There may not be a body  _ yet, _ but there certainly would be in a few minutes! Look at you, you’re so pale and bloody, you might as well be dead!”

“I’m not dead yet, fuck you!”

“Momota-kun, are you sure you should be keeping  _ that _ close to Ouma-kun? I think that’s plainly dangerous.”

“Shirogane-san is right! My inner voice is telling me that Remnants of Despair should never be trusted—”

“I told you already! He’s not a fucking Remnant! What does that even mean?!”

“Momota, Remnants of Despair are dangerous. They kill and they brainwash and they  _ hurt  _ people. Hands off and step away from him.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? Harumaki, you—”

“Nyeh… I agree. Ouma-kun is dangerous…”

“Shuuichi! Talk some sense into them! This isn’t the time for this!”

“Momota-kun, I-I…”

“Upupupupu! Looks like things are getting interesting! Why don’t I make everyone a deal? Everyone agrees that the Remnant of Despair would only bring chaos to this school,  _ right _ ? So how about I execute the remnant, and all of you would get out of this mess scot-free! Isn’t that exci—”

The video abruptly cut off. Ouma frowned. He pressed the appropriate keys on the keyboard, trying to play it again and again, figure out what happened next, but the video kept cutting off at the same point. He pouted, confused. Was the file corrupted?

The answer came to him in the form of a former Ultimate Astronaut opening his door. He could hear him pause. He must have seen what Ouma was watching… or more like  _ listening _ to. Ouma wrinkled his brows and shot a look in what he believed was his direction. “What happened next?”

Momota walked in. His footsteps were a usual occurrence now, as were his sighs.  

“The producers called the entire season off, then sent the medics in. The fans were going crazy with how the entire thing was a big fucking mess. Shirogane insisting to execute either all of us or you alone was the last straw. There wasn’t even a body, so why would there be a blackened at all? It was all unfair, but I guess she must have been pretty desperate to get rid of you.” That last bit almost sounded proud, as he reached his right hand over and ruffled Ouma’s hair.

Ouma slapped his hand away, intolerant of the contact. “Were they going to let me die?” He asked, voice unnervingly devoid of emotion. He didn’t know why he was asking; he already knew the answer, so what was the point?

Silence, it stretched for a few moments, until finally Momota replied.

“I want to believe they wouldn’t,” Momota said softly, but there was an undertone to his voice. Momota himself  _ knew  _ they would. Not that Ouma could blame them, really. With every vile thing he’s done in the game, Ouma would want himself dead too. Momota was the weird one for protecting Ouma. Momota was the weird one for staying by his side.

“You  _ are _ aware that I hate your guts, right?” he couldn’t help but ask. God forbid Momota thought they were actually  _ friends. _

Momota scoffed. “As if the look on your face every time you hear me around the room doesn’t say that enough.”

“Then what are you even doing here? I don’t need your  _ pity,  _ Momota-chan.”

“It’s not pity,” Momota insisted. “I’m just… doing the right thing.”

Ouma’s expression darkened.

“Look, you can’t tell me I didn’t have  _ some  _ part of the blame to your…  _ condition _ right now. I know how head injuries work, and I know there are some things I probably shouldn’t have done. I punched you in the face a while back and I… roughed you up a bit too, back in the hangar.”

“So that’s it? That’s the reason you keep hanging out around me? The reason you’re being  _ nice  _ to me?” Ouma spat. He could feel poison coating his tongue. “ _ Guilt?” _

Momota growled, as if Ouma wasn’t quite getting it. “I owe you a lot, Ouma.  _ We  _ owe you a lot. If it wasn’t for you, we’d all still be stuck in the killing game. I’d be dead,” he admitted. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks, it’s  _ you  _ who did all the work to get us out. And the fact that none of the others even try to check up on you is pissing me off.”

Ouma bit his lip. He wanted to see his face. He wanted to see his expression, his body language, the little tells. He wanted to prove to himself that Momota was talking out of his ass. That he was lying. This was so frustrating.

“So I guess… what I wanted to say is…” Momota trailed off, clearing his throat. “Thank you.”

_ Thank you. _

Ouma felt a chill run down his spine.

Hearing those two words did something strange to him at that very moment. It sent a mix of unwelcome emotions right down his gut, happiness and wonder and pain and disgust because  _ none _ of what he did deserved gratitude,  _ none _ of what he did deserved praise. He worked  _ so hard  _ to be a monster, and a monster he became, and if Momota couldn’t see that, then he was a fucking idiot.

His mouth opened and closed as he struggled to reply. Something snarky, something vile? Why lash out at someone who’s thanking you? That didn’t make any sort of sense, and Momota would see through it effortlessly. Ouma needed to say something cheeky, instead. Nonchalant. To keep his masks from breaking. He was an evil Supreme Leader after all. He swallowed hard as his hand clung to his sheets so tight he was worried he’d rip it apart. Come on. Come on, come on, come on—he let out a nervous laugh. “O-Of course! Of course Momota-chan would be grateful—”

(Two pairs of eyes staring at him, one electric blue and the other red like blood—)

“—you should hail me as your lord and savior—”

(Iruma’s dying avatar. Gokuhara’s burning corpse. They stared, and stared… and stared and stared and  _ stared _ —)

“…it was… my plan after all…”

(Why—)

“…we… survived after all…”

(— am I the one alive?)

“ _ Shit _ , Ouma, calm down,” was the next thing he heard, followed by Momota’s warm but tentative body pressing against his side. Ouma felt his lips tremble, as he squeezed his eyes shut, if only to ground himself back to the present. He didn’t realize his hands were shaking, and he was crying, tears that flowed freely down his cheeks. He didn’t realize he was gasping, gasping for air as if couldn’t breathe, air that he deprived Iruma of, and  _ god,  _ why is he alive, he didn’t deserve this, he didn’t deserve  _ any  _ of this, all he wanted to do was claw at his throat and  _ scream— _

“Ouma? Ouma, listen to me.” Momota’s voice was strangely calm. “You’re having a panic attack. Breathe with me. Come on. One, two…”

Ouma shook his head vigorously as he followed Momota’s breathing, trying to showcase one last act of defiance, despite the fact that it was all for naught. Five counts to inhale, and another five to exhale, over and over and over until he was actually feeling like himself again. He didn’t know what happened. He didn’t know what came over him. All he knew was that he  _ hated  _ the fact that he broke down in front of Momota, but at the same time, he didn’t want the ex-astronaut to let go of him. He clung to his clothes like that time back in the hangar, hating every second of his weakness, but melting all the same when Momota rubbed his right hand against his shoulder soothingly.

“Are you alright?” Momota asked.

Despite everything, Ouma snorted. As if  _ any  _ of them would ever be alright, after living through a killing game. Ouma didn’t know much about what happened to the others, but the hushed whispers from the nurses were enough to know that all of them were a mess in their own unique ways. Even Momota, who didn’t seem like he was much affected, had a telling scent of cigarettes that clung to him like second skin. Even Momota gets nightmares at night. Ouma knew. He could hear his midnight yelling next door.

Ouma wasn’t the only one who was struggling.

“Momota-chan.” he murmured tiredly as he leaned against him.

“Hm?”

“Why are you  _ really  _ here?” Ouma wrinkled his nose. “Did poor wittle Momota-chan lose his two pet projects and want to make a sidekick out of little old me? That’s pretty pathetic, if you ask me.” 

Momota grunted. “God, I  _ hate _ you.”

“What a coincidence! I hate you too! Think we can be hate buddies, Momota-chan? We can hate each other and the hate the world together and hate this whole stupid hospital with all our hearts!” Ouma said with forced enthusiasm.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Momota said as he ruffled Ouma’s hair yet again. This time, Ouma didn’t stop him. “Wanna get out for some fresh air? I’ll get the wheelchair.”

“No,” Ouma said as he struggled to sit on the edge of the bed, feet dangling down towards the cold floor. “I started physical therapy a few days back. I’d like to… get to know the layout of the hospital, if I could.”

Momota shrugged. “Sure.”

Ouma staggered as he stood up on wobbly legs, Momota supporting him at the sidelines.

“So… did you get your results yet?” Momota asked. Ouma hummed, knowing exactly what he was talking about.

“Yeah. Some mumbo jumbo about optical nerves and brain damage. There’s a possibility I could recover with some surgery.”

Momota perked up. “Hey! Isn’t that great?” Ouma fell silent as he stopped abruptly, staring down at the floor. Momota paused. “Ouma…?”

Ouma let out a shaky breath. “I refused it.”

“What?!”

Ouma tightened his grip on Momota’s right hand. He didn’t expect him to understand. Getting rid of his scars simply didn’t feel right. He  _ deserved  _ to stay in the darkness. At this point, the only comfort that kept him from taking a sharp object and  _ ripping  _ it across his own neck was the fact that fate already punished him, as if blindness was ever going to be enough retribution for the two innocent lives he took. Besides, as long as he’s blind, Team Danganronpa wouldn’t be off the hook just yet. It was a fitting sacrifice, all things considered.

“I just don’t want to,” he replied. Ouma hated the darkness, but there wasn’t much he hated more than  _ himself. _

Momota shifted uncomfortably, squeezing Ouma’s hand. He sounded confused, but  he didn’t press on the issue anyway. “Whatever, you do you I guess.”

Silence. Momota cleared his throat as he urged him to continue walking. “Just…” he trailed off. “If you’re gonna do something like that then I guess I have no choice but to take care of you.”

Ouma’s chest felt strange. He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you, now?”

“Yeah. I’m going to hang out with you and make your life fucking miserable.”

Ouma scoffed. “Do you think just because I’m blind, I’ve become senile? Just you wait until I can move properly again, and you’re going to regret that.”

Momota let out a laugh—his first genuine one since the killing game. Ouma found himself giggling back. The ex-astronaut’s voice was filled with mirth when he replied.

“I’m looking forward to that.”

* * *

Ouma stared at the slab of concrete riddled with seemingly random letters. He sat there on the grassy ground, holding a marker with his hand, his chest heavy, vision blurry.

It wasn’t the darkness this time. It was tears.

Ouma let out a choked sob and immediately hated himself for it. Because how dare he act as if he was human? As if he  _ cared?  _ If he truly cared about them, then he wouldn’t have brought them to their death in the first place. If he truly cared about them, then he would have just accepted his fate and let himself die by Iruma’s hands. But no—he was selfish. He was ambitious. He wanted to stop this nightmare. He wanted to end the killing game.

Even if it killed him.

Ouma leaned down and pressed the marker against the concrete. He wrote the last few letters of his note, a taunt to the ringleader.  _ This world belongs to Ouma Kokichi.  _

He stared at it for a long, long while.

Ouma didn’t make it to the bathroom. He threw up all over the grass.

* * *

Physical therapy was a pain in the ass.

Since that day, Momota made a point of walking him in to his sessions and walking him out once they were done. Ouma had once asked if Momota wanted a change of occupation from Ultimate Astronaut to Ultimate Babysitter, but Momota simply growled and told him to shut up.

One of the perks of being blind was that he didn’t know if people were staring oddly at him anymore. He didn’t know if people were glaring at him anymore. Hell, he didn’t know if there were people at all. His senses clung to Momota’s voice because it was the only stimuli he was familiar with, the sound of his stories about his own health and recovery, the awful cafeteria food, the view of the night sky from his room.

Momota didn’t talk about the killing game anymore. He didn’t talk about their fellow survivors, nor did he talk about the people who died. It was a bit of touchy subject, and neither of them complained.

It was once—and only once—that he ever mentioned them. And it was to tell Ouma that Team DR was forced to activate Kiibo again from the insistence (and subtle threats) of Yumeno and Saihara.

“So Kiiboy’s alive again?” Ouma asked as he let Momota help him up to the bed.

“Yeah,” Momota replied.

“Good.”

Later that night Ouma heard banging on his door.

He could say that he was woken up by the incessant noise, but the truth was: he was lying awake staring at the darkness of the night, like he had almost every night since the killing game ended. He couldn’t sleep. Every time he did he was met with nightmares upon nightmares upon nightmares. Nightmares about blue-eyed inventors choking on a rolls of tissue. Nightmares of huge bugs with razor sharp claws tearing him apart. Nightmares where everyone’s bodies were there on display, just…  _ staring  _ at him. Judgingly,  _ grudgingly _ . Sometimes the nightmares would leave him, but the dreams were just as bad—dreams about clown masks and wide grins and people that shouldn’t even be missed—because they didn’t exist, never have, and never will.

Ouma never liked the dark. In extension, he never liked nighttime either. In the solitude of his room, he couldn’t help but think too much. He couldn’t help but _feel_ _too much._ Nights leave him feeling lonely… _alone._

Tonight was an exception, because he had a visitor. Truth be told, there was  _ one  _ person Ouma wouldn’t mind hearing from in the middle of the night (shut up, Ouma, stop being a creep, as if that stupid moron would ever admit he too couldn’t sleep), but this wasn’t Momota Kaito. The knocks didn’t even sound remotely  _ human.  _ It was a banging of metal on wood.  Ouma wasn’t an idiot, who knew who it was, the person who stood outside his door, the person who opened it tentatively, bringing the sound of whirring engine with him, not unlike an electric fan.

Ouma smiled sweetly and snapped. “Get out of my room, Kiiboy.”

There was a pause. The whirring intensified. It was followed by an eerily human-like voice. “O-Ouma-kun, I’d like to apologize—”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Ouma said simply, dismissively. “Go back to sleep. Or to your charging dock, maybe.”

Kiibo’s fans sounded agitated. Maybe he needed a tune-up. If only Iruma was here— _ stop _ . Kiibo shouldn’t be apologizing. That was Ouma’s job, but the ex-Supreme Leader would only do that when hell freezes over, or when Kiibo turns into a real boy, so that’s beside the point.

One moment. Two… he could practically hear Kiibo hesitate, before his footsteps headed back to the door.

“Wait.” Ouma called out, a thought occurring to him as he lifted himself up to sitting position. “Kiibo?”

The sudden lack of robophobic nickname seem to catch the robot off-guard. “Y-Yes?”

“I heard Momota-chan and the rest of the group has been on thin ice for a while now.”

Kiibo sounded troubled. “I’ve heard from Saihara-kun that they indeed had a bit of an argument…”

“Momota-chan’s stubborn. But this fallout is affecting him more than he wants to admit.” Ouma paused. God, he didn’t know why the fuck he was doing this. He didn’t owe Momota  _ anything,  _ but for some reason, this just felt right. When he talked again, his voice was surprisingly gentle. “Do you think… you can do something about that? Get them to at least talk, maybe?”

A surprised gasp. “Ouma-kun, you…”

Ouma plopped himself back in the bed. “I’m not involved in this. I didn’t say anything at all! You came up with that idea all on your own, Kiibo. You can leave now! Shoo!”

More whirring fans. It was harder to gauge a robot’s reaction through sounds alone, Ouma realized. But eventually Kiibo replied. “Right…”

Silence. It took Ouma a while to figure out that Kiibo had left. He huffed as he pulled the covers over his head. That was probably his good deed of the century.

* * *

The darkness in front of him flickered. Ouma felt like flickering back. That was how numb and empty he felt at that moment, as if he could simply blink out of existence any moment. His movements these days have been almost robotic, methodical. He didn’t care much about anything anymore. He was a machine, determined to do his sole purpose: to end this killing game, end this nightmare, no matter what he had to do, no matter what sacrifice it would cause him.

Momota sat on the cold bathroom floor, glaring at the food Ouma tossed over to him. It was nothing much, just some bread he managed to nab out of the dining hall when nobody was looking. His plan so far had been effective; almost everyone had spent their days cooped up and depressed inside their rooms, despaired by the sight of the broken world Ouma had shown them. He tried not to think about the possibility of them committing suicide on their own—his ringleader persona had  _ suggested  _ it, yes, but surely they would be able to resist the temptation, if only to spite him. Ouma hoped.

The Supreme Leader sat down in front of Momota, instinctively raising a hand to soothe his bruised cheek. Twice he had done this before, and twice Momota snapped and punched his face with renewed fervor. Despite the fact that the astronaut’s shirt was already crusted with blood, Momota still seemed to have enough energy to hate him. That was good, Ouma supposed. That meant Ouma could still make use of him.

“Momota-chan,” he started, meeting his eyes. “Have you finally decided to kill me?”

“I said this before and I’ll say this again:  _ No _ .” Momota growled. “I don’t know what shit you’re thinking, or  _ why _ you’re doing this, but I’m not bloodying my hands for a sick freak like you.”

“You seem to be under the impression that you have a choice,” Ouma taunted, placing a finger on his cheek. “Would Momota-chan prefer I ask someone else instead?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Momota said as he stood, evidently fed up. “Why are you so fucking adamant about  _ dying?” _

_ Because it’s the only way we can end the killing game, _ Ouma didn’t say. Instead he rolled his eyes and gave him a look. “Oh, come on. You’re losing time, Momo-chan, and we both know it. Don’t you want the chance to go off with a bang?”

Momota furrowed his eyebrows. “I don’t… you’re so—” he abruptly cut off, voice pained. “God, I don’t fucking get you. You do horrible shit, and say horrible shit, but why?! Why the fuck are you doing this?!”

The darkness flickered in front of him again. Ouma squinted.

“I’m bored,” Ouma blurted.

“That’s a lie if I ever heard one.”

Ouma frowned at him, irritated. “Why are you always so difficult?” he snapped.

Momota was staring at him with fire in his eyes. He was a dying man, yes, but he still had a will to live. Ouma, on the other hand, felt like a dead man walking.

“Yeah, I’m  _ difficult  _ because I don’t wanna kill you,” Momota hissed.

“Exactly. Don’t you want to?” Ouma asked, confused. It was then that Momota’s demeanor changed significantly. He stared at him with a strange look in his eyes, something that almost looked  _ concerned,  _ but that couldn’t be right, no. Who would even be concerned about someone like him?

_ An idiot,  _ his mind supplied.

“Ouma…” Momota started, hesitant. “Are you… okay?”

A part of Ouma wanted to laugh. Another part wanted to cry. He did neither. He smiled softly, uncharacteristically. It was so unlike him, so unlike the ringleader persona he so masterfully created, so unlike the  _ monster— _ and for a moment he almost deluded himself into thinking that he was Ouma Kokichi yet again, the illustrious leader of DICE, loved and admired by his subordinates.

That was ancient history.

“Do you really think you’re the only one who doesn’t have much time left, Momota-chan?” he asked. Maybe it was presumptuous to liken his worsening physical condition to Momota’s deadly illness, but he thought he was losing time all the same—as much as he wanted to believe that he would able to function fine without his sight, he knew it was a lie. A person simply couldn’t prepare well enough for something like that. His options would be limited. He’d become a  _ liability _ , both to himself and others. He would rather get his plans over with while he still had his sight. He would rather die while he could still stare at death straight at its ugly face.

Momota’s eyes widened.  _ Great _ , now he looked even more concerned. “Ouma, you…”

Ouma’s vision swam. The darkness flickered again. He doubled over and put his hand on his face, shaking his head as a splitting headache spiked up the base of his skull.

He was vaguely aware of Momota walking over to his side, his voice calling out worriedly. “Ouma? Ouma!”

Ouma groaned as another headache tore through his skull. He shut his eyes, if only to shut out the nauseating colors, but when he opened them again, he felt his heart drop down his stomach.

_ No… no, no, no, no! Not yet! Please! _

He blinked a couple of times, trying to will the darkness away, to no avail.

_ Shit. _

Ouma gasped.

_ Shit! _

Someone started sobbing. It wasn’t Ouma, surely it wasn’t.

* * *

“Come taste the sun with me, Momota-chan~” Ouma sang.

Momota grunted. He didn’t seem to be in the mood for playful banter, clearly feeling awkward by the fact that they were outside in the garden, sitting side by side on the cozy, soft grass, with the other survivors situated not too far away from them. Ouma himself was a little tense too—the garden had always been his and Momota’s place of peace and silence, their little safe haven, and the fact that these people are crawling all over _their_ garden was more than a little unsettling. Even so, Ouma knew this was necessary, and by the way Kiibo’s mechanical footsteps led the other survivors, he _knew_ he brought this upon himself. This was _his_ idea, to push Momota into letting others in again. No matter how angry or bitter or betrayed the ex-astronaut felt right now, Ouma knew a part of him must be _yearning_ to talk to his sidekicks again. Even if he tried his best to deny it.

“Come smell the flowers with me, Momota-chan~” Ouma continued to prod as he poked at his side.

Momota squirmed. Ouma attempted to hug him just to tease, but as usual, the ex-astronaut tensed, slapping his hands away and shuffling a bit to get some distance. It was strange, as Momota didn’t really seem to be bothered physical contact before, back in the hangar. But these days he gets really on edge whenever Ouma gets too close. Maybe it was a trauma thing. Maybe it was Momota’s inner disgust about everything that Ouma represented. Or maybe Momota just felt awkward about being hugged by a guy.

_ Or maybe he’s hiding something. _

There were footsteps tentatively moving close. Momota suddenly reached his right hand out and held Ouma’s hand. Ouma sputtered a little bit at the sudden display of almost-affection, but he couldn’t help but think that the action was less towards Ouma and more towards their audience—as if a spiteful part of Momota was  _ daring  _ the others to approach, as if he was  _ daring  _ them to pull him away from the ex-Supreme Leader.

Eventually, someone… dared.

“Momota-kun?” It was the voice of a familiar Ultimate Detective.  Momota didn’t reply. He simply intertwined his fingers with Ouma’s, making the ex-Supreme Leader roll his eyes.

“Momota-kun,” Saihara pressed.

“What do you want, Saihara?” Momota snapped, and Ouma winced at the poison of his tone. Add that to the fact that he called him Saihara and not _Shuuichi…_ ouch. Ouma was aware Momota and Saihara’s relationship has been rocky since the fourth class trial (he didn’t think they ever made up with each other about that), but the fact that Momota was angry at Saihara back then because he supported Ouma was incredibly ironic, by the way Momota clung to Ouma now.

“I…” Saihara hesitated, tone deflating. “I just… want to talk—”

Ouma suddenly made a huge, obnoxious yawn as he started prying Momota’s hand away from him. The ex-astronaut gave a small grumble, but he eventually relented when Ouma spoke. “Hm~ I’m sleepy! Guess it’s time for my afternoon nap!”

“I’ll walk you back.” Momota was already standing up, but Ouma pushed him back down by the shoulders.

“As much as I like my underlings nice and loyal, you can stay here and bask in the sun, Momo-chan. I’m  _ blind,  _ not useless; I can walk myself back.” Momota knew this. He knew Ouma already memorized the layout of the entire building, knew Ouma would be okay. He just wanted to have an excuse to not talk to Saihara, but Ouma wasn’t going to let him have it. When Momota started to protest, Ouma raised his voice dramatically, so that others would hear. “I mean, if Momota-chan was just so  _ eager  _ to go sleep with me _ ,  _ I guess he’s welcome to join me in bed.  I can’t promise everything will stay PG-13 though…” He fluttered his eyelashes in what he hoped was his direction.

It had the intended effect. Momota was immediately a stuttering mess of denial. “O-Of course not! Cut that out! Who’d even want to sleep with  _ you?!” _

“Exactly!” Ouma chirped. “So leave me alone, Momo-chan. Stop being such a mother hen for one second.” And with that, he stood up and brushed the dirt off his clothes. Before he could be on his merry way though, he felt slim fingers touch his wrist.

“Ouma-kun…” It was Saihara. “Thank you.”

Ouma winced. Those two words again. He couldn’t  _ stand _ it. He simply shrugged in response, feeling his way through the familiar garden through his bare feet alone. Once or twice he felt someone’s presence near him, as if someone wanted to talk to him but decided otherwise, and for that he was glad. Because as much as he didn’t want to hear any more hurtful words from these people, he didn’t want to hear any kindness either.

This was fine. Ouma felt better this way. This was  _ fine.  _ He was used to being alone anyway.

But then, he realized, he wasn’t really alone anymore, was he? Momota was there, he was  _ always  _ there, and to Ouma… he was enough.

His eyes were widening in realization.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

* * *

The press was lowering down. Ouma could hear it, the mechanical sound grating against his ears, evidence of his impending doom. His heart was pounding, hands subtly shaking, and he almost laughed at the realization that he was  _ afraid.  _ This was his idea from the very beginning, wasn’t it? He  _ wanted  _ Momota to kill him, even before killer girl attacked. He wanted this to happen,  _ knew  _ this was supposed to happen, the moment he proclaimed that he never cared about a certain entomologist, right after he sobbed in his execution.

Maybe Ouma was already going insane.

But that thought was moot, especially now that death was steadily approaching. Ouma wasn’t an idiot, he  _ knew  _ how hydraulic presses work—this was going to hurt like a bitch. He knew he deserved it, anyway. Maybe Ouma would laugh. Maybe Ouma would scream. It didn’t matter, because in a few seconds he’d be dead, and the dead don’t  _ feel. _

_ (I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die—) _

Pathetic.

_ (Not like this! Not like this! Not like this—) _

Ouma clenched his fists, bracing himself.

But then… the press stopped.

Ouma blinked, confused and mystified as the sound of his death halted in front of him. The hum of the press underneath his body was replaced with a stillness that brought a chill down his spine. It was then that he heard that voice, too close than he  _ should  _ be—

“I-I can’t…” Momota started, voice pained and conflicted as his footsteps drew close. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry Ouma, I just can’t…  _ kill  _ you.”

Ouma’s reaction was instant. Rage. “Momota, what the  _ fuck  _ do you think you’re doing?!”

“I have an idea.” Momota blurted. When he touched Ouma’s arm the Supreme Leader flinched, but it was then that he heard it, that familiar shift in tone, the hopelessness in the astronaut’s voice replaced by grim determination. “I can fix this, Ouma. I’m not letting you die.”

“W-What are you even—” Ouma felt Momota usher his body halfway up the press. The movement made his head spin, everything was just too much when you’re already dying from poison. It was then that he felt it, something cool touching his lips, and before he could process what it was, the liquid was already flowing down his throat. He coughed and sputtered, but Momota’s strong hands kept him in place, giving him the option to either swallow or drown. Survival instincts kicking in, he gulped it all in.

It was only later that he realized what it was. His eyes widened in horror.

“I told you to drink it,” he murmured.

“I lied,” Momota replied unapologetically.

Lied? Lied about what? About being hit by Harukawa’s arrow? About drinking the antidote? Ouma’s breathing was turning ragged. “W-What are you  _ doing?! You  _ are going to die, you fucking idiot!”

Silence. As if Momota was contemplating something. And when he spoke, he sounded so sure of himself, that even Ouma was taken aback.

“I won’t die. Trust me.”  

* * *

“Nyeh… do you think Ouma-kun even knows about it?”

“Ah, I’m not sure, honestly. Momota-kun could be… quite stubborn.”

“He sounded really angry last time. His glares were scary.”

“…”

Ouma closed his eyes as the conversation moved on, the two survivors walking out of the garden, unaware of his presence. He has always prided himself with his prowess in hide-and-seek, and hiding behind the bushes has always been a good way of getting interesting information. As soon as their voices faded into the distance, Ouma stood up, brushing the leaves away from his hair, doing his best to walk out of his spot without tripping all over himself.

The first time he attempted walking around the garden, he fell flat on his face because of an unexpected branch lying around. Momota had laughed hard at his expense, and for a moment he felt irritated until Momota held his right hand out to help him up, telling him with a fond voice not to push himself too hard.

He couldn’t help but wonder if Momota would ever get tired of caring for him at all.

Ouma already knew the hospital like the back of his hand. Every nook, every cranny, he already explored it. Sometimes with Momota’s help, sometimes on his own. He simply  _ refused  _ to require a personal nurse or caretaker. He was independent, dammit, he can walk and move and function on his own! While his solo explorations have already put him in one or two awkward situations (bumping into Harukawa was not fun at all), the pros weighted more than the cons. Ouma liked the fact that in these small ways, he could have a bit of freedom.

His thoughts wandered back to the conversation he just overheard. Ouma wasn’t stupid, he had known for a long time that Momota hasn’t been completely honest with him. It was a bit hard to tell what  _ exactly  _ he was lying about, not when his sense of sight was compromised, not when he couldn’t see the little tells in body language. Momota  _ has  _ been keeping something from him, and with dread slowly easing into his stomach, an idea started forming in his head.

Momota has always walked on Ouma’s left side. Always sat on Ouma’s left side. He never,  _ ever  _ moved to Ouma’s right, and it had become so noticeable that at one point Ouma had jokingly asked if Momota was emulating the military ranks, the rule that a junior must always walk to the senior’s left. Momota only grunted in response. He didn’t even get mad about Ouma’s teasing, the fact that Ouma implied that he was somehow inferior. His reply was dismissive, as if he didn’t want to talk about it.

It made Ouma wonder.

A clatter that sounded a bit like metal resounded as Ouma walked along the hallways. Ouma paused, tilting his head to hear more. Judging from his mental map, the cafeteria was just up ahead. He could faintly hear someone cursing, a voice that was very familiar, and his eyes widened as he realized Momota must have dropped his tray of food all over to the floor.

This wasn’t the first time this has happened.

Slowly, Ouma walked towards the sound of his voice. Momota seemed frustrated, his voice mixing in with the sound of the utensils clattering together way too harshly for Ouma’s comfort. Then he seemed to stand up for a moment, only for some of the utensils to fall again.

If Momota has his back to him (which he assumed, because the ex-astronaut hasn’t shown any indication that he had noticed him), then that must mean those utensils fell on Momota’s  _ left  _ side…

Ouma swallowed hard as he crept up to him.

“Momo-chan~!” He playfully said as he threw himself towards him, bumping his head a little too hard on his back because of misjudged distance, but he clung at him anyways. Momota let out a surprised yelp, and once again, the tray fell down on the floor, but Momota remained standing—frozen, as Ouma reached his hands out and hugged him tightly.

For the first time since they got out of the killing game, Ouma caught Momota off guard. He made a pained smile as he held on closer,  _ tighter,  _ feeling every part of Momota he could, even the one part of him that he  _ couldn’t. _

Momota always picked Ouma up with his right arm. Ruffled his hair with his right hand. Held his hand with his right. Helped him up with his right. Ouma had always brushed this off as him being right-handed, but now he knew better. He would have chastised himself for not realizing this sooner, but perhaps… a part of him has known all along.

_ I won’t die. Trust me. _

“O-Ouma?” Momota sounded apprehensive.

Ouma buried his face in Momota’s back. His shoulders trembled for a bit, both from guilt and  _ sheer gratitude  _ from what Momota did for his sake, for  _ their  _ sakes, back in the killing game. He asked the question, but he knew he didn’t need an answer. He already knew what the answer was.

“Momota-chan…” Ouma murmured. “Where’s your left arm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: "Ouma being blind and taken care of by Momota." 
> 
> The last part about Momota's arm? Totally my fault. From this point onward everything will be *completely* my fault. Some things are left purposefully vague to make way for Momota's POV in the next chapter. And if you understand why and how Momota lost his arm, kudos to you! :) 
> 
> Sorry not sorry.


	2. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* Holy shit I haven't updated this is in six months 
> 
> Writing Momota's POV in this AU was definitely hard for me. A bit too hard... haha. I don't know if this chapter is worth the wait but hey- at least y'all are getting something from me this week. XD 
> 
> I recommend you reread the first chapter before reading this so that you can refresh yourself/ won't get confused. Much like Ouma's POV, this chapter goes back and forth in time. This is a 10,400 chapter monstrosity so... haha, have fun. XD 
> 
> I did this instead of writing for Oumota weekend. Woe is me.

“Momota-chan… where's your left arm?”

Momota stiffened, body unsure on whether to lean against Ouma’s comforting warmth or push him away. It’s been so long since he’d had proper human contact, with him being irritable to most everyone in this hospital save for Ouma, the only person who didn’t have any clue about his arm. Discomfort and dread swirled inside his gut, his mouth turning dry as he cursed himself for being so damn careless. He couldn’t help it! The whole damn thing with the tray falling over and over again was _frustrating._ He didn’t even realize that Ouma was there behind him until it was too late.

Momota clenched his fist. If he closed his eyes, he could feel his left arm still there, and yet whenever he opened it, it was gone. It was jarring, disorienting, _confusing—_

 _Shit,_ he cursed in his head, over and over, like a broken record. _Shit, shit, shit—_

Ouma’s embrace tightened. Momota only realized just then that his breathing was turning ragged. Cursing under his breath and then cursing himself some more, he resisted the urge to break away from the blind boy’s grip and kick in the nearest thing he could find. A chair, a wall, another _goddamn tray_ , it didn’t even matter if what it was at all, just that Momota would have something to throw his remaining fist against, just so he had somewhere to pour this disgusting mess of feelings inside him— disappointment and frustration and _anger_ and—

Why? What was he even angry about? Momota didn’t know. It’s just that since he had left the game he had been nothing but _angry_ — angry at himself for auditioning in such a stupid game, angry at Team Danganronpa for creating it, angry at the rest of the world for enjoying it. Hell— he was still a bit angry at his own sidekicks even now, even after they tried to apologize. It’s just that he felt so _betrayed_ about the way they were so indifferent about Ouma. Uncaring to the point of letting him _die,_ back there, back when Shirogane started that bullshit idea of executing the Ultimate Supreme Leader.

What pissed him off even more was the fact that ever since he lost his arm, everyone has been staring at him with _pity_ . They shouldn't! Momota lost his arm _willingly._ He did it to save Ouma. It's not like he didn't have any other choice.

For once, Momota acted like the hero he's always wanted to be. And yet…

Everyone was acting as if he was the victim here. A victim of Ouma's decisions. A victim of Danganronpa's storyline. But Momota was no victim. He didn't need their concern. He could power through his own disabilities just fine. Ouma was already adapting to his, too! It’s not like losing an arm was the end of the world. Momota would wear his arm—or lack thereof— with honor. The one thing in his shitty life that he was proud of.

And yet—

_“I’m not just going to be in Danganronpa. I’m gonna kill everybody, and win!”_

Momota felt _sick._ Every part of his body felt disgusted at the person he once was. He couldn’t even remember and yet— hearing those words in his own voice was… _painful._ There was no other way to put it— he _despised_ the person he used to be. Whenever he closed his eyes and thought about everyone’s dead bodies, he couldn’t help but—

A giggle. Ouma was giggling, laughing. It distracted Momota from his quickly spiraling thoughts, making him pause, looking back to give the boy a strange look. Ouma had his face pressed against his back, the embrace only tightening.

Tightening, further and further. Momota frowned, concerned. “...Ouma?”

“Pffft—hahahaha! Momo-chan is so clumsy!” the former Supreme Leader said, suddenly pulling back to look up at him. Blank lilac eyes and a wide grin. Momota was floored, confused for a moment, until he realized that Ouma was starting to crouch down, hands searching to pick up the stuff he had spilled all over the floor—

“W-Wait! Hold up! There's broken glass there, stupid!” he immediately warned, slapping the boy's hands away. Ouma only pouted as he waited for Momota to clean it up. Balance was troublesome, and Momota still wasn't used to it. The phantom limb usually makes him forget that there wasn’t actually anything there. But as soon as everything was back on the tray again, he swallowed thickly, lifting the whole thing up, trying to control the strength of his grip this time-

 _“Shit_ —” Momota shut his eyes as soon as he realized it was falling again. Falling again- _dammit!_ Frustration built in his chest and exploded in his face, gritting teeth before he realized that two pale hands were reaching out from their darkness, just in time to catch the side he couldn’t hold.

He paused for a moment, staring back at Ouma. The boy squeezed in at his side as if it was the most normal thing in the world, blinking a few times, asking. “Where are we headed?”

Momota swallowed as he gestured at the direction with his head, and then winced. “Uhh… to your right. Ten meters ahead. Nothing’s changed with the layout of the tables, so it should still be like the last time we were in here…”

Without hesitation, Ouma started walking, pulling at Momota to keep pace with his free hand. Whether on purpose or not, Ouma acted as if he trusted Momota’s words to the letter, no caution at all unlike whenever Ouma was alone, whenever Momota watched him from a distance. For some reason, the thought sent a flutter in his chest. Those things have been common lately.

Ouma used a hand to feel up the counter they were supposed to place the tray on, helping Momota put it down without any problems. Even blind, he was very much functional. It was amazing.

 _Ouma is amazing,_ Momota thought.

* * *

Ouma was _sobbing,_ and Momota didn’t know what to think.

There was just… so much _vulnerability_ to him at that moment that even as Momota ran towards his side, even as Momota found himself shouting his name— a part of him was frozen, watching this boy who had proclaimed himself the _big, bad mastermind_ shatter to pieces. Ouma was shaking, crying, hands gripping at the floor and gasping as if he couldn’t breathe. Momota didn’t know what to do, but his body moved on its own regardless, determined to give the boy some semblance of comfort as he patted his back, hearing him murmur “no” over and over as if it was a mantra he couldn’t afford to let go.

Momota’s mouth was dry, littered with the taste of his own blood, but he found himself saying regardless, murmuring regardless—“Shh… Ouma… Ouma, hey—everything is going to be alright—”

“Nothing is alright! Nothing is _ever_ going to be alright, don’t you still fucking get that, you space idiot?!”

“We don’t know that! Hey, calm down, okay? I don’t know what’s up with you all of a sudden, but—”

Ouma suddenly looked up, determined. He raised his hand as if to slap him. Momota flinched, ready for the pain. This was not the first time they had a physical confrontation since Ouma kidnapped him and kept him inside the hangar. As expected, Ouma moved his hand—

—and missed.

Momota blinked, surprised. The Supreme Leader’s face was unreadable, but finally, he lowered his head, letting his long bangs cover a good part of his face as if he had expected that blunder to happen all along and dreaded it. Momota remembered his words from earlier, said with so much pain and resignation that it sent chills down Momota’s spine.

_“Do you really think you’re the only one who doesn’t have much time left, Momota-chan?”_

Momota hesitated. Ouma started shaking. The tears were more silent now, but they were no less heartbreaking. The astronaut held a hand out, taking plum-colored strands of hair against his fingers, pushing those locks away from the boy’s face—

He waved his free hand in front of the boy’s face. Those unnaturally blank lilac eyes didn’t react, only letting out more tears.

“Fuck,” Momota cursed under his breath, as he pulled Ouma close and hugged him. Tight.

Ouma said nothing, merely lifting his hands to cling at his shirt. Momota thought that maybe, just _maybe—_ he felt the Supreme Leader’s body relax just a little bit.

 _A little bit_ was enough.

* * *

In Momota’s opinion, the nights were the hardest part of his days.

It was at night that he was alone with his thoughts, at night that he only had himself to occupy him with. It was at night that he had no choice but to stay in his room, especially with the nurses doing their rounds, at night that he had to deal with them inspecting the wound of the stump in his arm and pretend that the bloody thing wasn’t hurting like a bitch. They still figure him out regardless, and the amount of genuine concern they give him was sickening.

As _genuine_ as a person could feel over a _fictional character._

Because that’s what Momota was to them: nothing but the flesh of the person they gushed over during their lunch breaks. Momota was nothing but Momota Kaito, Luminary of the Stars, the hero who fought Monokuma in the decisive fifth trial and won. The Ultimate Astronaut their staff wrote into existence and the character they all rooted for, so much so that even if his actions were part of the reason Danganronpa was canceled for good and was in so much deep shit, they could forgive him.

Ouma wasn’t as lucky. But Ouma once told him that if _that_ was luck, then he’d rather stay a _Ko-Kichi._

Momota had laughed at the wordplay and agreed.

Tonight was one of those nights. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he looked up and stared at the night sky, visible from his hospital window. He reveled in the beauty of the cosmos and the comfort it brought, followed by the dreadful reminder that his future was never going to be the same as he had always imagined it. Personally, Momota thought it was cruel—giving him a dream only to be told it was a lie. Momota wasn’t sure how to feel about the stars anymore. Once, he wanted to go up there. Go to space with his own power. But now…

It was just a goal written into him, wasn’t it? Even if his talent was _real_ and _acknowledged_ in the “real” world, would Momota still really want to pursue it? Even when he knew the reason why he yearned for space so deeply was because of the same people who _wrote_ and set all his friends to _die?_

Momota reached his hand out as if he was trying to catch the heavens, and closed his fist.

If only the stars weren’t so out of reach.

* * *

_I won’t die,_ Momota remembered saying. _Trust me._

The astronaut stifled a cough trying to reach up against his throat. The belt that was haphazardly tied around his arm numbed his hand and fingers. In the back of his mind, he knew that wasn’t good. Holy shit, his arm was _dying,_ and he could _feel_ it dying, but he only swallowed hard as he considered the alternative. The alternative was that _he,_ the _entirety_ of him, will die. Especially now that he just gave Ouma the antidote.

The Supreme Leader was blinking confusedly, still not used to being completely blind, hand reaching out to try and touch him with an annoyed look on his face. He looked annoyed, yes, but more than that he looked _incredibly nervous—_ no doubt from the sudden changes Momota was imposing on their plan. Momota bit his lip.

Ouma didn’t have to know. He just had to trust Momota. And as long as he’s blind, he couldn’t say no.

The same realization seemed to have struck Ouma a moment later. He hissed. “You son of a—”

“Just trust me!” Momota pleaded as he started pacing around the room. He knew what to do. He had the basic idea of what was supposed to happen. It was something he learned back in survival training—that sometimes, _sometimes—_ you just had to make a choice. It’s more common with mountain climbing accidents, but killing games fare just as well, apparently. If Momota had to pick between losing an arm or _dying,_ it was no contest.

If he had to pick between losing an arm or _killing_ , it was no contest, either.

Momota had always known he was a stubborn ass, refusing to kill Ouma for so long. He didn’t realize his stubbornness was _this_ stubborn.

 _I won’t die,_ Momota thought to himself. Repeating it over and over in his head, like a mantra. _I won’t die. I won’t die. I won’t die._

Ouma was sitting at the corner of the hangar, pulling Momota’s white button up against his body for warmth, struggling to keep his eyelids open from the physical pain and exhaustion. He was looking more and more concerned as he tilted his head to the side, trying to pick up the noises of Momota’s movements. Trying to figure out what he’s doing, what he was planning. Momota almost felt bad for taking advantage of his recent disability, but it was necessary. Ouma would surely try to stop him, and he didn’t really need any convincing right now. He didn’t want to chicken out.

The Luminary of the Stars was no coward.

Momota considered his options. He could crush his arm, bone and all in the press, yes—but cleanly breaking it instead would at least give way to a less dangerous and infection-ridden recovery. That was assuming Momota would even have the chance to recover. Truth be told, he was thinking way too optimistically here. His chest still hurt and his lungs were still trying to cough his guts out—there was really no saying if this would even help at all. But at least… at the _very least_ , Momota wished he could extend his time on Earth for a few more measly hours. At least until after the trial is done. He wished it to all the gods he could remember off the top of his head. _Please…_ **_please_ ** _._

_Please let me save Ouma. Please let me save everyone. Before I die… I just want to—_

“I won’t die,” he whispered to himself, something he knew in his heart was a complete and utter lie. A lie to keep himself focused. A lie to keep himself going.

In the middle of the hangar, there was a post made of a sturdy material, made of crisscrossing metal bars. His arm would fit snugly if he pushed it in with enough force.  Around the platform where the exisals were meant to be stored, there were toolboxes… presumably to repair any malfunctions the robotic monstrosities might have. To Momota relief (and horror, because _holy shit_ he really was going to do this), there was a saw… a simple one, though it looks like the ones commonly used for metal.

It’ll do. Momota had been contemplating the arrowhead from the crossbow he shot, but that would take an awful lot of time.

 _Come on, Kaito,_ he thought, pep-talking himself as he started his preparations. _You know_ _how to do this. You_ learned _this. On a theoretical level, of course, but even so—_

He picked Ouma’s discarded clothes up from the floor. He would use the cloth to stop the bleeding.

 _This will work. This will work. This_ has _to work…!_

“M-Momota-chan? What’s happening?” Ouma sounded like a lost child, flailing innocently on weak limbs. He must have heard how his steps had halted suddenly after a flurry of activity, perhaps concerned that he might have passed out, or worse—“You said you’re not going to die! You’re _not_ allowed to die! Momota-chan, answer me!”

“I’m alive!” He didn’t say _‘I’m fine’_ because that would be a lie, and Ouma was good at catching those. Momota wasn’t fine at all. He was crazy, this idea was _crazy,_ but it was his best shot. He forced his dying arm through the gap of the bars, feeling the metal dig against his skin. Well, at least it still had that sense of touch. It wouldn’t have anything in the next few minutes.

The relief in Ouma’s voice was surprising. The demanding tone of it not quite so. “What are you doing? Are we still going on with the plan? Momota-chan—”

Momota stared at his arm and imagined what it would seem like to Shuuichi and the others if they saw this bloody, dead arm sticking out underneath the press with his galaxy jacket. He laughed. Even to him, it sounded a bit unhinged. “Yes! I’m making you a body right now, Ouma. So if you’ll just shut up for a moment and let me concentrate—”

Ouma fell silent. Momota’s mouth felt dry. First break the bone, just an inch or so from the tourniquet. And then once the bone is broken, use a sharp-edged tool to tear at the flesh and separate it—

Momota braced himself.

“Momota-chan.”

“Y-Yeah?” he called out, unable to keep the nervousness from his voice.

“…Thank you.”

Those two words did something to Momota. There was courage. He suddenly remembered what he’s doing this for, _who_ he’s doing this for—not just to save Ouma but to save everyone else. They’re going to make the perfect murder… which wasn’t a murder at all. Just a broken arm and a bloody hydraulic press. Momota could do this. Momota could save them.

Momota could be a _hero_.

He grinned, but with the pounding of his heart, it was more of a gritting of teeth.

“You’re fucking welcome.”

He jerked his body sharply to the side, hearing the decisive and telling _crack._ Momota gasped as his vision blacked out for a few moments, biting hard onto his good arm as he did his best to stifle his noises.

Ouma mustn’t know. Ouma didn’t _have_ to know.

_I won’t die. I won’t die. I won’t die…_

* * *

In his nightmares, he could see the press lowering down.

Lower, lower. Even lower down onto the defenseless, small boy. He was just laying there all pale and bloody, staring blankly at the press as it drew closer. Closer, closer. Ever _closer._ Momota needed to stop it. He _had_ to stop it and make Ouma drink the antidote instead. This wasn’t right… this _wasn’t right!_ He wanted to move and slam his hand on that big red button, but his body was frozen. He only watched in silence, unable to move, as the mechanical monster started touching the pale skin and the _pushing,_ down, down, down—until blood was gushing and bones were cracking. Squirting all over the place, staining the metal with red—

Momota couldn’t breathe. Finally, his fist moved.

(Someone was crying.)

The press stopped halfway, a second too late.

(Someone was dying _._ )

Half-crushed, but alive.

(Someone was _screaming.)_

 

Momota woke up screaming.

He immediately covered his mouth to stifle the noises, fresh tears spilling from the corner of his eyes, panic ringing in his head. Ouma… where’s Ouma?! He’s dead, no he’s not—the press. The press was going to kill him, _Momota_ was going to kill him and—

He bit his tongue and the taste of blood exploded in his mouth. It only threw him into _even more_ panic, remembering the days when blood was all he could taste, when blood was all that filled his lungs whenever he breathes— _I won’t die  I won’t die I won’t die I’m alive I’m alive I’m—_

Momota gasped. It didn’t send him into a coughing fit.

_Relief._

“Deep breaths, Kaito _,_ ” he told himself, not unlike the way he told Ouma the same thing, just a few days ago. “You’re having a panic attack. Breathe. One, two…”

It would have been easier if the static in his head wasn’t messing up his breathing exercises. It took him an embarrassingly long time to collect himself, but eventually, he managed to get his racing heart back in order. His hand grasped at his stump of an arm, reminding himself that he was _right here_ , alive. That he survived the killing game without killing _anyone._ The doctors told him he’ll be fine, that the virus was already out of his system. He should be recovering. He _will_ recover. He won’t die.

“I won’t die,” he whispered, like a mantra, because his mind kept forgetting. Despite how many times the doctors insisted that his medications were doing wonders to his body, the psychological stress of being on death’s door for so long simply won’t leave him so easily. He wished he could convince himself that he’s not dying anymore. Wished he could convince himself that he was finally out of the danger zone, finally _safe._

Momota didn’t feel safe. He hasn’t for a while now.

He sighed, running his hand through his hair. The images of his nightmare still ran through his head, like a fucked-up horror movie.

There was so much blood—

Momota let out a shaky breath. That nightmare—it wasn’t unusual in the slightest. He kills Ouma in his sleep every night. He didn’t want to admit it, but his fears and discomfort at the idea that he would have killed Ouma if things had gone differently, that it would have been _so easy—_ it still unsettled Momota even though the killing game was already over. _Had_ been over, for months now. How many, exactly? He wasn’t sure. Probably two. Three? It was hard to tell. But his nightmares weren’t getting any better. It was only getting worse the more time he spent with the ex-Supreme Leader, the more he got to know him. The idea of killing him with his own hands just kept getting more and more painful each day.

Momota sighed as he lifted his good arm to caress at his stump yet again, wincing at the sensitivity of the now mostly healed up skin. There was comfort in the reminder that as easy it was to kill Ouma at the time—it _wasn’t_ what actually happened. Ouma was still alive. _Blind,_ but alive.

And Momota was still alive. A little fucked up, but alive.

_(Was that really a good thing?)_

Momota closed his eyes.

_(Did you deserve to survive?)_

“Shut up,” Momota growled. Kicking the stupid thoughts out of his brain, where they _should_ be. The least Momota could do for the sake of those who died was to live his life to the fullest. If he didn’t, then them fighting for their lives through every class trial would have been for nothing.

He laid awake, watching the hours tick idly by.

He was unable to sleep. Or _unwilling_ to, rather. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, trying to will the image of a mangled Supreme Leader out of his head. Broken and bloody, crawling from underneath the press—Momota shivered. The air of the room suddenly felt colder. He wished he was beside something _warmer._

The thought rolled and bounced inside his head, like a ball in a pinball machine.

He took a deep breath… and then kicked the blankets off himself.

_Just for tonight._

The trip to Ouma’s room was short and easy. It was just Momota’s hesitance and pride making it feel much, much longer—much, much _harder_. Because Momota should be able to handle himself. He _should_ be able to not freak out over _what-ifs_ anymore. He didn’t think he had the right to whine about something so small when here Ouma was, dealing with a genuine, _incredibly_ _debilitating,_ disability. Even refusing to get treatment for it, too. _Ouma was so…_

Momota paused, unsure at how his brain wanted to finish that statement. He stood in front of the ex-Supreme Leader’s door, hesitating. Pacing. Lifting his hand to knock, but then pulling back at the last second. What was he doing? Why would he bother Ouma over something so _stupid?_ He ran his hand through his hair, sighing in exasperation, before turning to walk over back to his room—

Ouma’s room door suddenly slid open.

Momota jumped. An awkward, tense moment settled between them until Momota realized that Ouma was waiting for him to speak. “H-Hey…” The Supreme Leader tilted his head as if to place his voice and direction, before frowning in confusion.

“Momo-chan? You’re noisy, I could hear you walking around in the hallway,” His voice was soft. Unseeing lilac eyes stared past him, and Momota shivered. As blank those eyes were, it felt like they were staring right into his soul. He remembered how they sometimes look back in his dreams, staring accusingly at him, and then the screams—

He realized his breaths had turned ragged. “S-Sorry,” he stuttered.

Ouma paused. He seemed to be doing more of that lately. Pausing to hear more, because he couldn’t see. That’s probably Momota’s fault too. Punching him so hard so many times couldn’t have been good. He swallowed hard.

“What do you want?” Ouma asked, turning his body in his direction. Hand reaching out, trying to touch. Momota instinctively flinched and stepped away, until he remembered it wouldn’t matter anymore. Ouma already knew.

“You… you said you wouldn’t mind.” He bit his lip, because this was so _stupid,_ but he couldn’t help himself. He picked at the lint in his pajamas, murmuring. “You said, a while ago when we were talking to Shuu—Saihara… you said I’m welcome to join you in bed. If… if I want to.”

Ouma didn’t speak for a long while. Instead, he took one step. Two…

And then… he lifted his hand to touch Momota’s cheek. Momota held his breath.

“Nightmare?” Ouma asked.

Momota nodded. A strange expression passed Ouma’s face.

“Okay,” he relented. “But I’m the big spoon.”

Momota cracked a smile and whispered, “No way.”

* * *

_It worked._

Momota sat down on the floor of the trial grounds, watching the events unfold with disbelieving eyes. One second Monokuma was saying something about executing Ouma, and the next thing they knew the lights had shut down like a studio set, the medics flooding in, checking on all of them. Shirogane was shrieking, pointing at Ouma, eyes manic… _livid._ A remnant of despair, she called him. As if! Ouma had done a lot of bad things, but he tried _so hard._ Even now he’s still trying, clinging to Momota’s shirt blindly, eyes closed. Momota wasn’t even sure if he was still conscious, but the way he clutched at him so desperately gave him strength. He had been waging through the trial through sheer adrenaline alone.

The stump of his arm throbbed. Momota tried not to think about what this success had cost him. The sacrifice was worth it. Blood was leaking down his lips as his body was wracked with coughs. He didn’t actually think he’d survive this. But that was fine. That was… fine—

One of the medics was trying to talk to him. He couldn’t reply. They were trying to take Ouma, but he shook his head and held onto him, tightly, not letting him go. He promised he won’t let him die, he’d never let him go—

“Ever determined, huh,” one of the medics murmured, almost with pride. “I guess that’s what makes you my favorite character.”

_Character…?_

Momota’s eyes widened, his face turning pale.

“Huh?”

* * *

Ouma did end up being the big spoon that night.

It should be strange—weird in all ways imaginable. Not just because of their mismatching statures, but also because of the way Ouma had acted, his almost soothing presence. As much as he didn’t want to admit—Momota _enjoyed_ it. A lot. More than he should, probably. He enjoyed having Ouma’s arms around him, reminding him that the Ouma was alright. That he was fine, and unbroken, and _uncrushed._ He enjoyed Ouma whispering soft things in his ear when the nightmares visited him again. He enjoyed it all—so much so that even after the first night, Momota found himself coming back to sleep with him. Not sleep _sleep_ with him, but just… fall asleep together.

It was nice. It was more than nice. It was…

Momota’s eyes widened in realization.

_Safe._

(Momota didn’t feel safe. He hasn’t for a while now.)

Who knew he could find the security he needed in the small, vulnerable arms of a self-proclaimed dictator?

(But that’s wrong. Ouma was small, but he wasn’t vulnerable. He was strong. The strongest person Momota knew.)

It was physical therapy day for Ouma. While he could stand and walk fine, just doing it for longer periods of time was still grueling for him. And yet, he endured. Even when sweat trickled down his forehead, even when his face scrunched up in determination, even as his knees gave out underneath him many times—he still stood up and finished his exercises. Momota wondered what he was working so hard for. It almost seemed like Ouma was trying to prove something to someone, sometimes.

Soon enough, the therapy finished. After a few minutes of rest, Ouma was discharged, sitting on one of those wheelchairs he so despised. Momota couldn’t help but let out an almost teasing laugh at the way he pouted and sulked like a little child. Momota rolled him out into the hallway with a bit of difficulty, but Ouma didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t even have to ask where Momota was taking him anymore. They had fallen into a routine—every time after Ouma’s therapy, Momota takes him out to the garden for some fresh air.

Momota liked the hospital gardens. He liked to think it was their special place. But recently, the view of the flowers and the big blue sky stirred some confusing memories in his head, courtesy of the words Harukawa had spat out the last time he and the other survivors had their talk.

Momota didn’t want to think about it.

No, he’s _not_ thinking about it.

It was stupid. Because Momota… Momota wasn’t… he surely couldn’t possibly be—

Ouma lifted his hand to reach out behind him, stroking the hand that was holding tight against the grip of the wheelchair. The ex-Supreme Leader didn’t turn his gaze towards him (he tends to turn his _ear_ towards him instead these days), but his voice was enough to show his genuine concern. “Momota-chan? Something wrong?”

Momota blinked, unsure. “Something… what?”

“Your breathing was getting shallow,” Ouma explained, squeezing his fist comfortingly. Momota felt his cheeks flush at the attention he was being given.

“You… noticed that?”

“I’m coping.” Ouma sounded proud. “I think I’ve gotten better at picking up sounds.”

Momota wouldn’t be able to keep the smile off his face even if he tried. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I still don’t like the darkness, but it’s not that bad anymore.” Ouma frowned, looking troubled as his hand went down to clutch at his chest. “It’s weird. Technically, nothing has changed—everything’s still shitty as fuck. But it’s bearable now, I think.”

Momota laughed. “Your psych therapy started the other day, I heard. Helping much?”

Ouma snorted in a manner that said: _not at all._

Momota laughed even more. His hasn’t really helped all that much either. You couldn’t really be at ease with a therapist who was presumably the same person who evaluated you back when you were still an _entirely different person._ Momota didn’t know what the hell Team Danganronpa was thinking—if their entire business was traumatizing suicidal teens, you’d think they’d have better systems set for postgame mental health support.

Momota helped Ouma down the wheelchair, the two of them sitting down on the beautiful, green grass. The flowers were blooming today, he noticed. _Pretty._ Too bad Ouma couldn’t see them anymore. But Ouma’s fingertips were grazing on the bushes regardless, softly trailing along leaves and petals and branches. To him, Momota supposed that’s enough.

“If it makes you feel better, I do think you’ve been more mellow recently. You didn’t imagine it,” Momota couldn’t help but comment. Ouma pouted.

“Being overly cheeky is tiring. And being blind is forcing me to listen more and talk less.”

“Too bad, I was already missing you and your big mouth.”

“Nishishi. Of course you do.”

Silence. It was a comfortable one, and Momota found himself relaxing in the midst of it. The feeling of wind ruffling his hair, the sound of the leaves rustling in the trees—it was a calm afternoon. He almost wanted to lie down and sleep for a moment, if only to catch up the hours he had lost staring blankly at his room’s ceiling at night. He yawned and did just that, laying himself down on the grass.

“Was it hard?” Ouma suddenly asked, breaking the silence. Momota opened one eye, peeking at the ex-Supreme Leader curiously.

“What?”

“Was it hard? Losing an arm.”

Momota considered it but eventually shrugged. “I dunno. Losing your eyesight is probably worse.”

Ouma’s fingertips traveled from the bush down to his cheek, warm fingertips grazing his skin. Momota blinked bleary-eyed, feeling his cheeks flush a bit when those fingers trailed down his neck and to his collar, following a path to left shoulder—

Momota tensed when Ouma touched the place where his arm no longer sits. His stump was just in between his shoulder and elbow—with the haphazard chopping only making the doctors need to cut off a bit more to stop the infection from getting worse. Ouma traced a finger over the already healed but still raw skin, and Momota shuddered.

“Did it hurt?” Ouma asked.

Momota cracked a smile. “No shit.”

Ouma hummed as he did the last thing Momota expected him to. He leaned in and actually _kissed_ the stump, leaving Momota reeling—blood rising to his face as he suddenly registered the intimacy of their position at the moment. Or hell—the intimacy they had been sharing in the past few days.

“Thank you for being my hero,” Ouma murmured.

Momota’s heart stopped. His ears were ringing. “W-What?”

Ouma made a small smile that was so unlike him, it was jarring. Momota was almost convinced he was dreaming this entire moment up. “I’m only here because Momota-chan saved me, right? I don’t remember ever thanking him for it.”

Numb, Momota muttered. “We’re only here because _you’re_ crazy enough to make that plan.”

“And _you’re_ crazy enough to see it through.”

That shut Momota up. He just stared, dumbfounded. Three strange words were lingering in the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t make himself say it. Couldn’t make himself _think_ about saying it. Harukawa was right. But that’s too weird. Momota’s head was spinning.

“I’m no hero,” he whispered. _I’m just a fraud._

Ouma laughed as if that was the most stupid thing he had heard all his life.

Momota didn’t laugh with him.

* * *

_“I’m not just going to be in Danganronpa. I’m gonna kill everybody, and win!”_

Momota stared at the video recording in horror. His head was a mess, his fists ( _fist,_ he reminded himself) shaking, and it was all he could do not to take the small tablet in his hands and throw it hard against the wall. His mind was reeling, his throat closing up, as he registered the smell of the cigarettes clinging against his skin, the small trail of smoke coming from the stick on the ashtray that he couldn’t even figure out how to properly consume. It just sat there, staring at him, _mocking_ him, making his body crave the sweet hit of nicotine in his bloodstream and _god_ it was true, wasn't it? This body hasn’t always been Momota Kaito. This body didn’t spend countless hours walking through the edges of the beach and swimming in the vast, open sea— didn’t even seem to have any relatives who _care_ like Momota’s grandparents—no, those were all _lies._ Fabrications. In order to make this _stupid_ Ultimate Astronaut. The forms that were now lying ripped on his bedroom floor didn’t even have the _same fucking name_ on it! A part of him as always known he was a fraud, but not like this. _Not like this._

He hated the game. Hated the fact that he _willingly_ joined it. Hated the fact that Team Danganronpa had _proof_ that he willingly joined it. Hated the fact that his room smelled like cigarettes. Hated the nurse that came into his room and smuggled it, winking at him as if he should be grateful for it. Hated the fact that he was.

He had always been restless inside the academy and knowing the reason why wasn’t helping. Momota couldn’t believe his previous self has been stuffing this _perfectly good_ body with so much fucking _garbage._

Even so, his hand reached for it.

Fingers closing on the stick, confusion and helplessness closing on a fragile heart.

Momota Kaito was incredibly good at hating himself.

The first and last time he did it, he begged the doctors and nurses not to tell _anyone._ Which, to his surprise—they didn’t. Perhaps they knew that telling the other survivors would just make Momota feel so much _worse._ That was probably it. They knew Momota inside and out. They practically _made_ him.

Even so, they kept visitors away and kept a _very_ close watch on him for at least three days after the fact.

The bruises on his neck faded a week after.

* * *

His sidekicks were staring at them from her table as they walked through the cafeteria for breakfast. Ouma was there again, helping Momota to not spill his food all over the floor—using Momota’s body as a crutch of sorts to both lean on and guide his way back safely to their table. Momota couldn’t meet Harukawa’s eyes as he sat beside Ouma, mumbling to him where everything on his plate was—waffles at six o’clock, eggs at ten, bacon at three and a helping of mashed potatoes over at twelve. Ouma nodded with a gleeful “Thanks, my beloved Momota-chan!” that didn’t help matters, especially when Momota was already so _conscious_ about it. Especially when Harukawa was staring at him with those knowing crimson eyes.

Her words back at the garden still haunted him. Momota stuffed his face in.

She stood up. Momota wanted to bolt. But Ouma was here and Ouma was warm and Ouma was making deliberately sexual noises as he started eating his food. Despite the tension in his body, Momota actually laughed, scolding with an elbow. Ouma giggled. They were having fun.

Harukawa didn’t approach them. She left. But Momota didn’t feel relief— he felt _terrible._

Across them, Saihara gave him an apologetic smile and followed after her.

* * *

“Try to go out,” the nurse who smuggled the cigarettes told him helpfully. “Go talk to your friends. It could be good for you.”

Momota couldn’t meet her eyes. He didn’t respond. She frowned in concern and excused herself.

The days have gone by in a hazy blur. For all his coldness towards everyone these days, he actually thought the nurse was right. He just couldn’t _stand_ talking to the other survivors right now—especially with his fallout with his sidekicks back in the trial—their argument about whether or not Ouma deserved to live. He scoffed. _Everyone_ deserved to live. Even that little shit.

His thoughts wandered. _Ouma…_

He remembered lilac eyes opening blearily, a hand pulling back. The look of confusion on that sightless gaze as he woke up after the trial. His first words after the game: _this is so wrong._ The sound of the scream that followed the moment Momota closed the door, as if Ouma couldn’t bear the thought of Momota seeing his anguish.

Magenta eyes widened with sudden realization. Determination.

_Ouma!_

He suddenly bolted up, cursing when he fell from his bed and down onto the floor, scrambling to stand up and follow the nurse who just left. He stumbled a few times, the left sleeve of his hospital garb flopping against the wind in a way that made him feel _sick_ —but he pushed through it. He ran until she was within sight. Ran until she was within reach.

“W-Wait!” he called out. The nurse looked back with surprise in her face. Momota held up a finger as he caught his breath. The nurse looked faintly amused, and Momota wondered if he looked like a mess at the moment. He couldn’t even remember the last time he left his room, nor the last time he took a shower.

“Yes, Momota-san?” the nurse asked. Momota winced as he remembered his name. His… _real name._ No, that’s not him. That’s _not_ him.

(Momota didn’t know how the hell everyone else was faring with the fact that they were all nothing more than frauds. He wondered if watching his unedited audition tape was a bad idea. It probably was.)

“O-Ouma,” he said, clearing his throat. “Ouma, he…” He swallowed hard. “Is he… alright?”

“Why do you ask, Momota-san?”

“He’s blind,” Momota blurted. “He’s… he’s blind. I-I want to…” Want to what, exactly? Talk to him? See him? Would Ouma even _want_ him around? Probably not. But Momota suddenly felt _so bad_ about the fact that he wasn’t able to visit him, at least since his suicide attempt. Not that Ouma would care or worry about where he’s been. “Can I… talk to him? Take him out… to the gardens! Or something.” The rooms these days felt suffocating.

The nurse smiled apologetically. “Ouma-kun still can’t walk properly. His physical therapy hasn’t started yet.”

“I’ll wheel him out,” Momota murmured, running his hand through his hair. It felt gross against his fingers. “I-I’ll use a wheelchair.” When the nurse glanced at the state of his left arm, he stammered. “I’ll figure out… how to push it properly. Somehow.” He’ll practice. He’ll cope. “Does Ouma know…?”

Her smile looked thoughtful. “I wonder… Ouma-kun hasn’t been very social…”

Momota was vibrating. Someone who didn’t know what’s been happening with him. Someone who didn’t know what happened to his arm. Someone who wouldn’t look at him with concern or apprehension or _pity._ Momota swallowed hard.

“Good,” he murmured, numbly turning back to get ready. Take a shower, do his hair—do anything that would make him feel comfortable in his own skin again. “Good.”

It took a full day of practice until he was sure he could push the wheelchair without it tilting to the side too much, or giving off too many hints that could push Ouma to realize. He was incredibly nervous when he opened the door, seeing Ouma sitting there on the bed, voice tired but still biting— no questions about Momota’s welfare, only faint annoyance.

Ouma would always be Ouma. Even though Momota wasn’t Momota anymore.

He didn’t know who he was anymore.

But maybe this was a start to finding himself again.

Momota hoped.

* * *

“You’re doing so much better,” the doctor said, delighted, as he checked on his stump of an arm. Perfectly healed by now, Momota could imagine, but it still felt weird to feel someone handling it like that. He lifted it, examined it, and put it back down before reaching for his pen and making some notes on his clipboard. As soon as that was finished, he smiled at Momota. “Your arm is doing a wonderful recovery, too. Do you still get phantom pains, Momota-kun?”

 _Yes,_ he thought. “No,” he replied.

“Do you still have suicidal thoughts?”

“No,” Momota lied, his tone vaguely irritated.

The doctor hummed thoughtfully as he wrote a couple of things in his clipboard. “That’s good. Soon enough you’d be able to try on some prosthetics. We have quite a selection here in Team DR.”

“If they look anything like that shit Komaeda Nagito’s arm, no thanks,” Momota gritted his teeth. The doctor stared at him in amusement.

“We _do_ have prosthetics inspired by his design, if you’re interested.”

_“Fuck off.”_

The doctor merely laughed at his at his response, but Momota was not at all amused. Having to deal with them has been quite the bitter pill to swallow, so when the doctor finally started to say his goodbyes, Momota felt incredibly relieved.

_Finally._

His body had been itching, craving for another shot of nicotine, and often he couldn’t help but wonder why the hell the nurse would smuggle him cigarettes and not one of those fancy patches— you’d think if they were even half-decent professionals they’ll actually _encourage_ him to quit. Cursing under his breath and cursing some more, he looked back up to the night sky, as if he would find the answers within the cosmos, lurking right behind those constellations. Momota wondered if his old self liked the stars too. Probably not as much as the fucker liked his drugs and alcohol. Once he gets out of this shithole, will he gravitate towards those, too?

God, he hoped not. The mere thought scared the shit out of him.

He spent quite a while trying to relax, wincing at the biting pain of his arm and massaging it better. It was one of those nights when the darkness was too cold and lonely. After the third stick, Momota shuffled out of his bed and decided he’d sleep with Ouma again tonight. It was fine. Ouma didn’t mind.

He opened the door.

“A-Ah,” Saihara looked particularly flustered when Momota found him walking in circles in front of his door. The former detective looked apprehensive but hopeful, definitely not expecting Momota to find him so soon, but still polite enough to give a little wave when their eyes met. “H-Hello there… Momota-kun.”

Unsure what to say, Momota stared _._

Saihara’s shoulders sagged, disheartened when he saw Momota’s lackluster reply. “Uhm…”

Momota hesitated, looking back at the person he used to call his sidekick, scratching the back of his head. “What do you want, _Shuuichi_?”

To say Saihara was relieved to hear his name slip from Momota’s lips like that would be an understatement. He practically _glowed,_ and just like that— they were alright. Just like that, everything was forgiven.

Well, most everything was forgiven.

“We had a talk with Ouma-kun today,” Saihara informed him with a shy, hopeful smile. “We apologized for what happened. I know it’s too late, but I just want to tell you that we really do regret it, Momota-kun. We have settled our differences, although I admit it was a bit awkward…”

Okay, everything was _indeed_ forgiven.

“Don’t worry about it, Shuu,” he said with a faint grin. It’s been months, it would be stupid to continue holding the grudge. Besides… “To be honest, I still feel a little pissed, but now I was just… shaken by what Harumaki said. Don’t worry about it.”

Saihara watched him carefully, before nodding thoughtfully. “Harukawa-san do still find it a bit… ah, painful to be around you… I think.”

Momota sighed. “Can’t blame her, really.”

Awkward silence. Saihara shifted. Momota cleared his throat. The ex-detective seemed to have something on his mind, something that was making him clutch at his shirt uneasily. Finally, he gathered the courage, looking up at Momota.

“Uhm, Momota-kun—”

“Kaito,” Momota corrected him, reaching over to flick him in the forehead. They’ve been through so much, calling him anything else was just inappropriate. Saihara’s smile widened.

“Kaito-kun. I was just wondering— I heard from the nurses that we’ve all been doing well, and we’re going to be discharged from the hospital soon.”

Momota’s eyes widened. He didn’t expect that. “Really?”

“Yes. I’ve already informed the others as well, and I even managed to talk to my uncle about it. I understand that most of us don’t have a proper home to go back to, so uhh… I was wondering if you’d like to… stay with us? Harukawa-san have decided to break off and live on her own but my uncle is going to help her find a place too. Kiibo-kun and Yumeno-san decided they’d stay with us until they figure out something to do. I haven’t asked Ouma-kun yet, but—”

“Your uncle is real?” Momota couldn’t help it, he was surprised.

Saihara paused for a moment, before smiling sadly. “Yes. Apparently he… tried to stop me from auditioning, but I didn’t listen.” Regret was clear in the weight of his tone and the bite to his lip, but he shook his head and continued. “What about you, Kaito-kun? I mean, I was wondering if you’d actually want to go back to your grandparents or something, so—”

“They’re dead,” Momota said numbly. _I have nowhere to go back to._

“O-Oh,” Saihara stuttered, expression turning into shame at his insensitivity. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that, Kaito-kun.”

“It’s not something to be sorry about,” Momota whispered. “They’re douchebags. Nowhere near as nice as the grandparents I remember.”

Saihara looked up at him curiously. “Kaito-kun, are you alright?”

 _No,_ he didn’t say. But he didn’t have to. He didn’t know what the look on his face was at that moment, but Saihara’s eyes widened with genuine worry, reaching up to pat his shoulder. Momota trembled, feeling both relieved and disgusted with himself for not being strong enough. For not being able to hide how shitty he was feeling at that moment. He wasn’t even sure how it happened, but the next thing he knew he had his forehead pressed against Saihara’s shoulder, his body wracked with sobs as he clutched at Saihara’s shirt.

“Kaito-kun?” Saihara whispered.

“How do you even…” Momota sniffled, hand shaking. “...deal with this shit? How do you… How does  _everyone—”_

He felt a hand patting his back. That only made him want to sob harder.

“Everyone else is dead. We’re the only ones who survived and I’m already being shitty at it! I don’t even know why I was one of the people who lived—it’s unfair! It’s so _fucking_ unfair! I wanted to kill everyone! That person, that fucking douchebag who signed all those contracts, he wanted to kill everyone. I don’t get it! Why was I like that? _I’m not like that!”_

He continued on, talking about things he didn’t want to talk about. About how much the thought of killing Ouma scared him shitless. About how much he wanted to hide from everyone else’s gazes. About the fact that he didn’t know himself anymore, that he wasn’t the person he wanted to be anymore—just the ghost of the dazzling Momota Kaito he was in the game. For the very first time, he even admitted it—he tried to kill himself. It was probably the worst insult he could give to their friends who died, their friends who were so determined to live. Momota was incredibly lucky to be alive, and yet here he was, trying to throw it away! What the fuck was wrong with his head?! Why won’t it stop tormenting him?! He talked and talked and talked until finally, he couldn’t talk anymore, merely choking on air as he cursed himself some more for throwing all this shit onto Saihara. Momota was supposed to be Saihara’s support system. Not the other way around.

Shame burned so bright under his skin that he couldn’t bring himself to breathe, at least until Saihara reminded him.

He gasped. Saihara was silent for a long while, but the hand soothing his back was still there, not stopping.

“Say something,” Momota begged. Saihara hesitated.

“I… I didn’t know Kaito-kun was suffering.”

Momota laughed brokenly. For all the things to say, that was the last thing he expected. “What the fuck, Shuuichi.”

“No… it’s just that… Kaito-kun has always looked so content whenever he’s with Ouma-kun.”

Momota fell silent. He bit his lip. “Ouma is… good to me,” he murmured.

Even if he couldn’t see it, he could hear the smile in Saihara’s voice. “Of course. But that wasn’t the point I was getting at.” He pulled back and Momota stood in front of him awkwardly, realizing just then that he just had a breakdown in front of the fucking hallway, in front of his sidekick, no less. The shame only burned brighter, but Saihara was talking again. “Kaito-kun?”

“What?” Momota snapped, not meeting his eyes.

“Kaito-kun, look at me.”

Momota looked up to see Saihara smiling sadly. The ex-detective reached a hand to touch his right sleeve, and with difficulty, started to pull it up his arm. Momota’s eyes widened when he saw the bandages, looking fresh with blood seeping through them. Further up Saihara’s arm, there were scars.

Momota didn’t know what to think.

“My point is that we’re all just good at hiding it from others. Kaito-kun isn’t the only one who’s struggling. Kaito-kun didn’t have to fight alone.”

Momota hesitated, reaching out to softly touch it. Saihara winced. The cut was deep. How long has Saihara been cutting himself? That’s just— no.

Momota felt like crying all over again. But Saihara wasn’t crying. He was wiping Momota’s tears. Despite everything, despite the cuts on his arm and the scars up his skin, his sidekick seemed to have gotten stronger. Momota didn’t even notice.

“Are you going to stay with us?” Saihara asked again. Ah, that’s right. He was asking about that, wasn’t he? Momota considered it, even as he felt his body droop in exhaustion.

“Ouma isn’t gonna want to be a burden to anyone else. The little shit would probably insist on getting himself a new place, too,” Momota whispered.

Saihara nodded thoughtfully. “That does seem like something he’ll do. Well then, thank you, Momota-kun. I’ll be going now, but please remember that you can talk to me again whenever you like.”

Momota sputtered. “W-Wait, you’re not gonna wait for my response?”

Saihara smiled knowingly. “Kaito-kun already made up his mind, didn’t he?”

As he watched Saihara leave, Momota was left standing there, dumbfounded.

After a long moment, he realized he was right.

* * *

“You’ve changed,” Harukawa said, as if Momota didn’t know. As if the changes inside him wasn’t something he despised and dreaded. Ever since Ouma left, this ‘talk’ of their had only continued to go south. Saihara was only looking more and more anxious. Harukawa looking more and more frustrated. Even when Yumeno and Kiibo tried to mediate, it was no good— Momota didn’t want to hear any of it, not when the former assassin was being so unfairly aggressive. She had probably managed to call Ouma a number of vile names at this point and if she wasn’t a girl, Momota would have been tempted to punch her. Because Ouma didn’t deserve that. He _saved their lives,_ and he deserved so much better than this.

A couple of poisonous words had already been thrown at each other. A couple of nasty glares. Momota didn’t understand, this wasn’t the Harumaki he knew. Why would she look so hurt like that, just because Momota _refused_ to stay away from Ouma like she wanted to? That pain on her face was true. It was genuine. Almost as if… as if—

“You’re jealous,” Momota said in realization, everything suddenly making sense. The assassin’s eyes widened, but the tears that dripped from her eyes didn’t lie. Momota suddenly felt _terrible_ for not realizing it sooner. Something like this… something like this is just—

“ _I love you,_ ” Harukawa confessed, right there in the middle of the gardens, hand clutching at her chest as if merely saying it was agony. “I-I can’t help it, I don’t know why, but it hurts! I’ve never felt this way before, Momota, I—”

Momota took a step back. _You don’t love me. You just love the person you thought I was._

Harukawa looked utterly humiliated by her actions, and he wanted to hug and comfort her, yes, but how could he? He didn’t want to put her hopes up. He didn’t want to hurt her more than he needed to, or hurt her more than she had already endured. He loved her as a friend, not like this. Not _anything_ like this.

(In the back of his head, a possibility nagged. Her feelings might not even be real, just a remnant of the yearning brought upon by the scriptwriters— just like Momota’s yearning of the stars. But he couldn’t break her like that, he couldn’t.)

“H-Harumaki…”

“This is so stupid,” she choked out, rubbing her tears with the back of her hands. “I get it. My feelings aren’t going to be returned. I’m not stupid. I just wish… we’d go back to how we used to be.”

“If you really thought that… you shouldn’t have insulted Ouma like that,” Momota replied grudgingly.

“I know,” she murmured, looking away. “I _know_. You really… love him, don’t you?”

Momota’s eyes widened.

When she looked back at him, her expression was of a warrior who waged a battle and lost. She clenched her fists, ashamed. “I’ll… apologize better next time,” she promised.

She probably said something else too, but Momota was no longer listening.

* * *

_If this is love,_ Momota figured, _it’s not so bad._

“Hey, Ouma. Get moving. We’re going to miss our bus,” he called out as he knocked on Ouma’s door. When he didn’t hear a response, he peeked in, only to see the ex-Supreme Leader grumbling under his breath as he struggled to tie his shoelaces properly. Momota let out a soft chuckle when he realized that the laces didn’t even go through some of the holes in the shoe, not to mention the mismatching socks. He closed the door behind him as he walked closer, reaching his hand out to assist him. “Here, let me.”

Ouma grumbled some more as Momota took off his shoe with little difficulty, pulling the socks off as well. Ouma’s suitcase was still open on the bed, the clothes rumpled and messed up inside in what seems to be an attempt to find something to wear. Impressively, Ouma’s outfit actually looked decent, though he supposed that was in credit to the simplicity of jeans and a t-shirt.

“With how ‘nice’ Team Danganronpa has been to provide us some clothes for our ‘new life’, you’d think they’d at least bother to help the _blind guy_ figure out which stuff to wear. The fabric all feels the fucking same,” Ouma complained. Momota still wasn’t sure how to feel about the producers, at least they’re keeping their end of the contract. The amount of prize money currently sitting on his bank account still made Momota’s head spin with disbelief.

“You’re the one who didn’t like asking for help anyways,” Momota reminded him, picking the right sock and trying to pull it over Ouma’s foot. He grunted in frustration when it didn’t slip in just right, but Ouma was already on it, using his hands to pull it over himself.

“You’re one to talk!”

Momota fell silent as he unraveled the shoelaces to put them through the shoe properly. Ouma’s covered feet toed at his cheek, and with a scowl he lifted his head and lightly bit it, making Ouma _shriek_ and practically kick him in the face.

“Gross! Momota-chan is so gross!”

“Stop moving or I’ll fucking tickle your soles.” Even as he said that, he was smiling.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Momota rolled his eyes.

“Stop rolling your eyes at me! That’s super rude!” Ouma pouted.

“How did you even- _whatever._ I’ll comb your hair now,” Momota said as he reached for the hairbrush on the bedside table, but before he could bring it up towards Ouma’s head, the guy was already trailing his dainty fingers down Momota’s arm, snatching the brush off of his hand.

“I can do that myself,” he mumbled as he started doing just that, untangling the knots out of his still damp locks. Momota watched as he parted his hair methodically, making sure not to miss anything. Through the months his hair had gotten even longer, now reaching a little past his shoulders, and as soon as his hair tumbled nicely against his shoulder he pulled it on one side of his face, braiding the locks with practiced fingers. “Ta-dah~! Do I look pretty, Momo-chan?”

Momota stared at him with surprise. “How did you learn how to do that?”

“Harukawa-chan taught me, duh!” Ouma replied, as if that was obvious. Now that he thought about it, Harukawa had indeed started wearing her hair in a braid lately. Momota felt a smile of pure happiness grace his lips as he considered the idea of Ouma and Harukawa finally getting along.

“I didn’t know you two got close.”

Ouma giggled. “ _Yeeep!_ She even gave me her contact number. What, you can’t possibly think you’re the only person I spend time with, Momo-chan!”

Momota didn’t comment how Ouma had been the center of his world for a while now. “Yeah… you’re right, I suppose.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Ouma cheekily reminded him.

Momota stared at him as he considered it. Ouma was facing him with unfocused eyes, but he was grinning devilishly, and the expression on his face was not unlike everything else Momota has learned to tolerate and— dare he say it?— _love._ Momota simply grunted as he reached his hand out, patting his head.

“Yeah, you look great,” he admitted.

Ouma’s smile widened. A faint blush graced his cheeks. He braced his arms on the bed and used it to propel himself forward, stumbling a bit before he got his balance back and cocked his ear at him. “Well, what are you waiting for, Momo-chan? Didn’t you say we were going to miss our bus? Geez, what a drag.”

Momota’s lips quirked into a smile, but he did his best to sound exasperated. “We could have managed to make Team DR drive us over, you know. _You’re_ the one who wanted this setup.”

“Of course I do! I wouldn’t want their greedy, crummy feet to step even close to my new life. Just the thought makes me want to shudder.” Ouma reached a hand out to grab at Momota and Momota shuffled closer.

“We’re still gonna have to go back here for check-ups, you know,” Momota replied. “I’d still have to get my prosthetic sometime later.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Hand in hand, together, the two of them walked out of Ouma’s room. Ouma had a big grin on his face, facing forward—and Momota wondered if one day, maybe, the image would ever look less beautiful.

They walked through the hallways he wouldn’t miss, past the nurses he wouldn’t miss, through the garden that he’d probably miss just a little bit, but no matter—they could probably start their own garden, if their new place would permit it. The thought of living a new life with Ouma felt strange and yet— it felt good. It felt _right._ The only thing that felt right in a long while, especially since the world felt so _wrong_ after the killing game.

 _If this is love,_ Momota mused, _I like it._

“Where are we going, anyways?” he asked, curiously.

Ouma giggled cheekily and replied.

“Home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me, if you want! :D  
> Tumblr (mostly inactive): https://rev-eeriee.tumblr.com/  
> Twitter (18+ account): https://twitter.com/rev_eeriee
> 
> If you guys want to chat or see what I might be up to, go check it out. :3


End file.
